


Pappardelle

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Series: Angel Hair [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sugar Daddy John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:30:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4654131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When successful surgeon John takes home a handsome young waiter, what happens the morning after?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John became aware of the scent in the air before anything else--the unmistakable smell of sex--and he smiled. Before opening his eyes, he stretched, luxuriating in the feel of soft cotton against his skin, of the warm body to his right. As he curled towards the warmth, his eyes fluttered open.

 

A mess of dark curls met his sight, a single curl drooping like a ripe peach at the base of Sherlock's skull, twirling down his neck. John reached out and hooked it around his finger, twisting it before sliding his finger out from the curl and down Sherlock's spine. As John reached the base of his neck, Sherlock sighed, settling onto his back.

 

His curls were a frizzy riot of tangles. The seam of the pillowcase had etched a mark down one side of his face, and as he rolled to his back, his mouth fell open into a soft snore. God, but he was beautiful.

 

John ran his fingers over Sherlock's scalp, spreading his fingertips at Sherlock's hairline and sliding them back. They caught in Sherlock's tangles, and John laughed. The laugh caught in his throat when Sherlock's head tilted back, stretching the sinews of his neck as a hum rumbled through it.

 

"Sherlock," John whispered, making another halting pass through Sherlock's hair. "Are you awake?"

 

Sherlock grumbled, rolling over and curling himself against John. "No."

 

John lifted his head, coming up on one elbow to kiss Sherlock's temple. He had meant it sweetly, but then Sherlock made that rumbly humming sound again. And what a wonderful sound it was. John wanted him to make it again.

 

So, he slid down the bed, his knees knocking against Sherlock's and sliding down his shins. He kissed Sherlock's cheekbone, then his nose, and then the other cheek bone.

 

Sherlock smiled. He sighed, but he didn't make the sound John sought. Still, John's heart felt light at the sight, the gorgeous genius in his bed smiling and sighing at his touch. All his talk of experimenting and likening their night together to a business transaction, but here was the truth. In an unguarded moment, Sherlock showed that he truly enjoyed John's affection, and it made John's heart feel twice its size.

 

But--he swallowed to tamp down the feeling--it wouldn't do to let himself get too attached at this point. Sherlock was only here as long as he found whatever it was they had or were going to have mutually beneficial, as Sherlock put it.

 

Then again, he couldn’t help indulging, but that wouldn’t stop him from pushing things in a different direction. So, he slid down a little further, nuzzled below Sherlock’s earlobe, and then brushed his lips over it. s he captured it between his teeth, Sherlock made that noise again. John moaned in response, holding it back enough to keep from breaking their sleepy spell.

 

He kissed his way down Sherlock’s jaw, under his chin, down his throat, pausing to nibble at his Adam’s apple, relishing the feeling of Sherlock’s voice vibrating against his lips. He did it again, this time sucking at the knot of vocal cords, and Sherlock arched against his mouth, the low rumble growing into an open-mouthed groan.

 

“Awake yet, love?” John asked Sherlock’s neck, brushing his lips against the base of Sherlock’s throat.

 

“No,” Sherlock mumbled. “Try harder.”

 

Now, there was a challenge John would more than happily accept.

 

He shifted his weight, easing one leg over Sherlock until he was on his knees and elbows, his body hovering just inches from Sherlock’s. He looked down Sherlock’s body, at the smattering of hair and freckles on his chest, the thin trail of hair leading down his abdomen, disappearing below the waistband of those sinful black boxer briefs. Besides a love bite on his neck, Sherlock was unmarred, and John found himself at war between the desire to ruin it or preserve it.

 

He started with just his lips and tongue, disallowing his teeth from marking that skin even temporarily. Licking at Sherlock’s suprasternal notch. Brushing his lips across his clavicle. Swirling his tongue around a nipple, flicking it until the flesh pebbled beneath his tongue. And then, he couldn’t help it any longer. He captured it between his teeth and tugged, smiling at the sharp exhalation above him, the thighs beneath his arse drawing up and out, the torso arching into his mouth.

 

He left the other nipple alone, eliciting a piteous whine above him when he moved on. John slipped his legs between Sherlock’s, and as he kissed down Sherlock’s abdominals, he reached up to pinch the neglected nipple.

 

Once John’s mouth reached Sherlock’s navel, his teeth digging momentarily into the flesh below, he looked up to take stock of his progress. Sherlock’s thighs had fallen open next to John’s shoulders, his heels sliding up and down the bed. His hands opened and closed in the sheets, and his head and torso were just as restless as the rest of him.

 

“How about now?” John asked, tugging down Sherlock’s waistband just enough to place a closed-mouth kiss below his belly button. “Are you awake?”

 

“No.” Sherlock shook his head, one hand snaking into John’s hair. “No.”

 

“Well.” John propped himself on one elbow, tapping his fingers on Sherlock’s hips. “What’s a daddy to do when his bad boy refuses to get up?”

 

At that, Sherlock’s eyes flew wide open, and his whole body shuddered, ripping a wrecked moan from his body. 

 

Sherlock peered down his body, biting his bottom lip as he met John’s eyes. “What, Daddy?”

 

“What, indeed. Of course”--John laid his palm over the bulge in Sherlock’s pants, skimming it up and down--”it seems at least part of you is up. Maybe we should start with that.”

 

“Yes, please.”

 

With a smirk, John hooked his fingers around Sherlock’s waistband, pulling it out and down until Sherlock’s erection came free. He shuffled them down Sherlock’s hips--ignoring the way Sherlock thrust them in the air--until they slung low on his upper thighs, keeping his legs trapped together. God. If John had his way, he might never let Sherlock take these off. He stared at his tableau for a moment, lamenting the moment he would have to slip these off. But there was nothing for it. No matter how much he loved the sight of these pants bunched around Sherlock’s thighs, for what he wanted to do, he needed Sherlock’s legs able to spread wide. So, with one last look, John slipped the pants off Sherlock’s legs and settled between them.

 

John laid a peck at the crest of Sherlock’s hipbone and shifted to do the same to the other side. Sherlock’s lips pressed together, his hands fisting at his sides to keep himself still. John’s lips traced the dip of Sherlock’s oblique down from his hip, coming to rest at the crook at the crest of Sherlock’s thighs, his cheek resting against the ridged skin of Sherlock’s bollocks. And there, he breathed, letting warm air spread across Sherlock’s groin, making Sherlock’s fists ball tighter, his breathing quicken

 

“It’s okay, love.” John smoothed a palm down Sherlock’s chest. “Don’t hold back, You don’t have to stay still for me.”

 

The sound that Sherlock made was indescribable, inhuman, a sound of pure relief, and wonder, and a healthy dose of arousal. John shivered. God, he’d never gotten off on another man’s sounds this much before, but that voice making those noises. Who could blame him?

 

John returned to his place, this time laving the area with the flat of his tongue, never landing directly on Sherlock’s balls but instead on his thigh, his perineum. John’s tongue wriggled into the space between testicle and thigh, and once Sherlock seemed adequately teased, John switched to the other side.

 

Sherlock growled, his knees drawing up, his hands scrabbling at John’s shoulders, tugging at his hair.

 

“Shhh,” John soothed, and slowly, Sherlock settled. “There’s my good lad. Patience. I think we both learned last night that you could use some.”

 

Sherlock bit at his knuckles, but his body relaxed, his knees falling to the side.Yet, the tension still in Sherlock’s face worried John.

 

“What’s your safeword, love?”

 

“Potassium,” Sherlock huffed.

 

“Good. Do you need to use it?”

 

“No, but please, John, I nee--”

 

The rest of Sherlock’s words broke into a long, loud moan as John closed his lips around Sherlock’s cock, sliding his mouth down. His cock jumped and pulsed in John’s mouth, and despite John’s best efforts to keep Sherlock’s hips still, they rose off the bed, arching Sherlock’s body so that only his shoulders and heels still touched the mattress.

 

God, John could be choking on cock right now, and he wouldn’t care. This was beautiful. Amazing. He hummed around it, savoring it, lapping up the underside. He pulled up to swirl around the head, flick at the frenulum, gather salty precome from the slit.

 

Slowly, Sherlock’s hips drifted back down, circling against the bedsheets instead. John let Sherlock set the rhythm, making his movements a counterpoint to Sherlock’s. When Sherlock’s hips tipped up, John sank down, and when they pulled back, John did too, nearly pulling off only to tease at the sensitive glans.

 

“Oh, Daddy!” Sherlock shouted, his hips stuttering, his heels slipping.

 

So, John grabbed onto Sherlock’s legs, pushing them farther apart, guiding them out and back until he was laid bare from his arsehole to the tip of his cock. And John just wanted to lick him up and down.

 

He dove to Sherlock’s perineum, licking wide circles with the flat of his tongue, dipping down to tease between the cleft. Sherlock’s hips circled against John’s mouth, and John found himself rutting against the mattress, his own pants and whimpers flowing freely against Sherlock’s skin.

 

Spitting into his hand, John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, sweeping his thumb over the slit, spreading precome in concentric circles as his tongue mimicked the movement, sweeping wider and wider as Sherlock’s sounds grew more and more needy, frantic, wrecked.

 

John opened his mouth wide as his fist pumped on Sherlock’s cock, engulfing both of Sherlock’s testicles in the wet heat of his mouth, sucking them hard. And at that moment, Sherlock shuddered, going completely silent as his cock jerked in John’s hand, spilling over his fingers.

 

God.

 

John huffed and moaned against Sherlock’s skin, enjoying Sherlock’s completion almost as much as Sherlock did. As Sherlock’s breathing slowed, so did John’s, his mouth still slack next to Sherlock’s groin, his hand curled limply around Sherlock’s softening cock.

 

“Jesus Christ,” John sighed, resting his head on Sherlock’s thigh.

 

“I concur,” said Sherlock after a moment.

 

They lay there catching their breath for several long moments, and despite not coming, John felt a relaxed lethargy wash over him that almost kept the niggling doubt of what would happen next at bay. Would Sherlock still believe that John had something to offer, or would this be the last of their encounters?

 

John took a deep breath, let it out, swallowed. He had more to offer. So much more. He shuffled up to his elbows, surveying Sherlock’s sated, wrecked body.

 

Running a finger through the semen on Sherlock’s belly, he tutted. “You’ve made a right mess of yourself, love. What am I going to do with you?”

 

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered. “What, Daddy?”

 

“I need to put you in a bath.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Without waiting for Sherlock’s response, John slid off the bed and sauntered to the bathroom. He couldn’t help the momentary question of whether Sherlock would follow from niggling at him, but it was quashed when he heard bedsprings creak behind him. He refused to break stride, though, keeping up the illusion that he was the one in charge. As much as he had enjoyed their little game, and as much as he would continue to indulge it, there was no question who was truly calling the shots. At this moment, John would do anything to keep this gorgeous, enigmatic man around.

As he stoppered the drain and started the water, letting it warm up against the backs of his fingers, he wondered if there would ever come a time that he wouldn’t be trying to impress Sherlock with his prowess. Admittedly, he had his fair share, but still. If this were the purely academic exploration as Sherlock had presented it, a genius like him was sure to get bored quickly. And while he was thinking about it, why did the idea bother him so much? It wasn't as if he were new to the concept of one-night stands and brief affairs, no matter how long it had been.

The water had just started to run hot against John’s hands when Sherlock walked in, still very much nude but looking more naked than he had at any point in the last few hours. His posture lacked much of the haughty confidence that had defined him up to that point. Streaks of come still painted his abdomen, absolutely stunning against the alabaster of his skin, but John could tell that Sherlock’s fingers itched to wipe them away.

After a moment, one hand crept up from Sherlock’s hip, fingertip sweeping over the edge of one streak. It must have been drying, tightening the skin underneath. It was probably growing uncomfortable, and the bath had far to go before it was full. However, when Sherlock’s palm lifted, gesturing to wipe at his stomach, John held out a hand.

“Don’t you dare.”

Sherlock paused, his hand hovering in front of his abdomen, his eyes wide, and John’s flagging erection gave a hopeful throb.

“Hands at your sides.”

Sherlock did as he was asked, drawing in a shaky breath as his tongue swept between his lips. “It’s uncomfortable,” he pleaded.

“I know, love.” John beckoned Sherlock over. “Come here and let Daddy take care of it.”

Sherlock’s head drooped, but a smirk quirked the corner of his mouth as he eyed John through his lashes. “Yes, Daddy.”

Sherlock didn’t look up, watching his toes until they came to rest between John’s spread legs. The base of his ribs was level with John’s nose, and John could smell the salty musk of Sherlock’s semen. To say that John’s erection was no longer flagging would have been an understatement. One whiff of that powerful scent had rocketed his libido into dangerous territory. The idea of a bath that had seemed so enticing just minutes ago now seemed folly. Even now, the basin was barely half full. Why did he have to purchase a flat with such a large tub?

John didn’t want to wait. He wanted to shuck his pyjamas and push Sherlock to his knees. That mouth had been so brilliant the night before, so willing, so eager. He wanted to push past those plush lips, make Sherlock moan and drool around him. He wanted to see if John’s cock in his mouth could get Sherlock hard again. True, it had only been minutes since he’d come, but Sherlock was young and inexperienced. Surely he’d have a few in him. How many times could John get him to come in one day?

John stared into Sherlock’s hooded eyes, his tongue trailing absently over his lower lip. Flitting images of his myriad fantasies sped through his mind, but somehow, he pushed those desires back, no matter how much his cock tried to protest, and instead sublimated them by grasping Sherlock’s nape and dragging him down.

Sherlock squeaked in surprise, catching himself on John’s shoulders as John plundered his mouth. His tongue was relentless, swirling Sherlock’s up with it, urging him to push back. After an impossibly long moment, Sherlock acquiesced, and their kiss grew sloppy, breathless, needy. Sherlock’s knees bent, his weight shifting backwards, and John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s hips. If John had any hope to fulfill his plans, Sherlock couldn’t drop to his knees.

His fingers dug into Sherlock’s hips, pushing them up. Idly, he wondered if his fingers might leave marks. He hoped they would, and if Sherlock’s high-pitched moans were anything to go by, so did Sherlock. He pushed against John’s grip, bit at his lower lip.

John pulled back, not enough to completely break the kiss, but enough to murmur, “Are you trying to misbehave?”

Sherlock stood up and fluttered his lashes like a coquettish debutante. “Why would I do that?”

“Do you want me to punish you?” John tried to keep his eyes on Sherlock, but the manly smell of his come beckoned. John licked his lips.

Sherlock mirrored the action. “What would that entail?”

Before answering, John dragged his tongue over one pearlescent streak. “What do you think would be appropriate?”

Sherlock’s hand flew to John’s head, his fingers tangled in John’s hair, but instead of answering, he simply huffed, “John.”

“Hmm,” John hummed against Sherlock’s skin, licking at it again. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“The bath’s about to overflow.”

John flicked off the tap and pulled back from Sherlock. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

Sherlock tugged at John’s hair. “Keep licking me.”

Though John did as requested, once another stripe of skin was clear, he said, “Doesn’t seem like much of a punishment.”

Sherlock bit his lip, color rising on his cheeks. “You could spank me.”

A shiver ran through John’s spine. “Would you like that?”

“That hardly seems the point.”

“Oh”--John reached around to stroke Sherlock’s arse--“but it is. Do you like the shock of the blow? The initial sting? The slowly building burn? Do you want me to put you over my knee and smack you until you squirm?”

Sherlock’s cock twitched in time with a guttural grunt that made John feel like a stalking predator, ready to pounce.

He yanked forward on Sherlock’s arse, pulling Sherlock’s hips flush with John’s chest, his belly with John’s lips. Speaking into Sherlock’s skin, he continued, “It would make you so hard, wouldn’t it? I bet you’d be leaking. I bet you’d ruin my trousers. I’d make you rub yourself off on my thighs. Would you like that?”

“Oh, God.”

John nibbled below Sherlock’s navel, grinning at the erection pressed against his clavicle. “Hmm?” He licked a bead of precome from Sherlock’s slit. “Is that a yes?”

Sherlock’s hands flew to John’s shoulders, his body rocking in John’s grip, and it was only the breathy quality that kept his next utterance from being a shout.

“Yes.”

God, John wanted to do it. He could just imagine that arse turning red under his palm, Sherlock squirming in his lap, the grunted utterances of pleasure and pain. He wanted to take the moment from the night before--when Sherlock’s mind had shut down, when he had been reduced to blind aching need--and stretch it out over minutes or even hours. He wanted to watch the pieces of artifice fall away, to take Sherlock apart, to know him in a way no one had ever known him before, and then to help him put it all back together.

But, he also knew that if he gave Sherlock exactly what he wanted, he ran the risk of Sherlock getting bored.

He took a deep breath, giving Sherlock’s arse a gentle pat. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to find a way to do something worthy of a spanking. For now, into the bath with you.”

John eased a stunned Sherlock backwards. Once he had enough room, he escaped the gap between Sherlock and the tub, pulling off his pyjama bottoms.

“Well?” John asked, nodding towards the bath. “Water’s getting cold.”

Sherlock blinked as his gaze met John’s. “What if I refuse?”

John couldn’t help but smile. Already so desperate for a spanking? That was an excellent sign, but he wasn’t going to get it that easy.

John shrugged, maneuvering around Sherlock to get into the bath. “If you don’t want to play, that’s fine. You can sit in the corner and wait while I play by myself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his whole posture dripping sarcasm. “Really, John? You want to put me in time out?”

John flinched, taken aback by the sudden change in demeanor, but it didn’t take long for his stomach to shake around a chuckle. “Just get in the bath with me.”

Sherlock’s eyelids dropped over a flirty grin. “Are you certain? Wouldn’t you rather I put on my dunce cap and face the wall?”

John grabbed Sherlock’s arms, dragging him over until he had no choice but to stumble into the bath. Their lips mashed together in a clumsy kiss, and without fully breaking it, John mumbled, “Give me a break. You’re not the only one new to this kind of roleplay.”

Sherlock’s lips pulled away, and John found himself following, blindly seeking their return. He couldn’t stop the momentary panic that he had messed it all up, that it was over as soon as it started, but then Sherlock’s lips were back on his. Only the angle had changed. Sherlock kissed and pulled back again and again, landing in a different place every time, like he was exploring every contour of John’s mouth. He ran the gamut from featherlight pecks to mashing drags of lips, and never in a predictable pattern. It was exhilarating, and John got carried away, riding the ebb and flow of Sherlock’s kisses.

He would have been happy to go on like that, kissing with their feet in the bath until the water turned cold, but just as abruptly as he started, Sherlock dropped to his knees. John had barely enough time to sway in the wind, his cock tantalisingly close to Sherlock’s lips, before Sherlock dropped back to sit on his heels.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “I do believe I was promised a bath.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched, and he grabbed a flannel and body wash from the top of a small hutch by the bath before sinking down into the water himself.

As he squeezed soap onto the flannel, John said, “So I can give you a bath, I can spank you, but I can’t put you in time out.”

“I would assume you wouldn’t want to put me in a diaper, either.”

John giggled, setting aside the body wash. “How can you be so certain?”

Sherlock gave him a look that made it absolutely clear that John should know the hows and whys of Sherlock’s certainty and that he was obviously an idiot for not knowing.

“Fair enough. Turn around.”

Sherlock did as he was asked, presenting his back for John’s exploration. John set to scrubbing, swirling soap over the skin before following the trails with his bare hand. He connected the dots of Sherlock’s moles with his fingertips, smiling at the shiver that ran down Sherlock’s spine.

As he pulled Sherlock’s arms out to the side, delineating the muscles with soapy hands, John asked, “What is it that you like about this, exactly?”

John tugged at Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock followed, leaning back until he settled against John’s chest.

Sherlock sighed. “Must I really explain it?”

“I just want this to be good for you.” He swiped the flannel over Sherlock’s stomach, rinsing away the evidence of their early morning entertainment. “I’d rather not inadvertently cross another line.”

“I have a safeword for that.”

John set the flannel aside. “Listen. I understand that you might feel uncomfortable talking about this, but the more we can hash out outside of a scene, the more fun we can have in it.”

Sherlock swallowed, his posture going stiff. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Here”--John twined his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, easing his head down to rest on John’s shoulder--”relax. I’m here for you. Whatever you want. We don’t need to talk through the psychology of why you enjoy what you enjoy. It’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine.”

John smiled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “Good. Tell Daddy what you want?”

Sherlock tilted his head, eyes like peacock feathers staring at John, expression soft. “Take care of me.”

John curled his fingers over Sherlock’s jaw, dragging him up into a kiss, but before their lips could fully meet, John said, “There are so many ways to interpret that. Which way do you mean?”

Sherlock pushed up against John’s hand, moaning when John held him millimeters away. His mouth dropped open, his pupils blowing wide as a desperate breath punched from his lungs. 

“All of them.”

John dropped his hand to curve over the front of Sherlock’s neck, watching as Sherlock’s eyelids widened and then drooped again as a quavering, breathy grunt vibrated against John’s palm. Now that was gorgeous. It made John want to do all sorts of nasty things to this beautiful man--not that he needed any help with that. Of their own volition, John’s thighs squeezed around Sherlock’s hips. His arse slid forward, making his cock slide up the small of Sherlock’s back, and his shiver was at odds with the warm water surrounding them.

John let his lips just touch Sherlock’s bottom one, running his tongue along it before saying. “Up on your knees.”

Sherlock hummed, his eyes drifting shut even as he shifted his weight. “Yes, Daddy.”

God, when was that word in Sherlock’s breathy baritone not going to send a spike of shameful lust down John’s spine? At this rate, he doubted it would ever happen. “Hands on the rim of the tub.”

Sherlock shuffled forward until his knees hit the slope of the tub’s edge, leaning over just slightly. He could have reached the edge without leaning at all, but John appreciated the gesture. It put Sherlock’s arse on display so nicely. The water lapped at the crease between cheek and thigh, sending tiny, dissipating quivers up from the surface, raising goosebumps on the skin of Sherlock’s arse.

“That’s it, love,” John breathed, sliding up behind Sherlock. He pressed his hands to Sherlock’s arse, one cheek in each palm, and rubbed the goosebumps away. Kissing between Sherlock’s shoulders blades, he continued, “Do you see the little table on your right?”

John could see the sarcastic response pop up like a thought bubble, but Sherlock simply nodded.

“Open the drawer.” John’s fingers traced the vee of Sherlock’s lower oblique muscles, bringing up goosebumps anew. “There’s a bottle of silicone-based lubricant. Grab it for me?”

Sherlock did as he was asked, passing the bottle over his shoulder. “Pink?”

“My ex-wife’s.” John flipped open the cap.

“Bisexual,” Sherlock hissed, thumping the heel of his hand against the porcelain. “There’s always something.”

The bottle hovered over John’s hand, a drop of lube hanging hopefully from the dispenser. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Obviously.” Sarcasm dripped from Sherlock’s voice the way the lube did not. “But I should have noticed.”

“I see.” John squeezed a generous dollop of lube into his palm, slicking up his cock and spreading the remainder between Sherlock’s cheeks.

Sherlock started, hips kicking forward before settling against John’s hand.

“It’s nice to know that I can surprise you.” John’s fingers fluttered over Sherlock’s hole before withdrawing.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock groaned, pressing his hips back. “Fuck me.”

John shuffled forward until his cock rested on the crest of Sherlock’s arse. “I have something else in mind.”

As Sherlock rocked back against John, sucking in a hissing breath, John pressed his palms to Sherlock’s cheeks, spreading them. A frisson of anticipation shimmered down his spine, coalescing in his groin, and he couldn’t stop the long groan that escaped him at the sight. Sherlock really had a truly spectacular arse--not that the rest of him wasn’t. All the way from his frizzy crown to his long toes, he was incandescent.

“How long have you been divorced?” Sherlock’s tone of voice and body language were completely at odds with his words, and it forced a single chuckle from his throat.

“I’ve got my cock in your crack, and that’s what comes to mind?”

“My curiosity cannot be sated.”

John hummed, letting go of Sherlock’s arse to let the globes settle on either side of his cock, and walked his fingertips over Sherlock’s hips until they could comb through Sherlock’s pubic hair, knuckles brushing the top of Sherlock’s erection. “Your mind and body have something in common. Let’s focus on one at a time, hmm?”

Sherlock’s shoulders stooped, and John worried for a moment that Sherlock was disappointed. But a moment later, Sherlock’s fingers encircled John’s wrist and urged it downwards. “Fine. Later.”

John kissed the center of Sherlock’s back as his hand closed around Sherlock’s cock. “Worried that I’m rebounding?”

“I was thinking revenge fuck,” Sherlock said, and his cock throbbed in John’s hand.

John’s hips kicked forwards at Sherlock’s reaction to his own words. A shiver rippled down his back. “Oh, God. You like that idea, don’t you, you dirty boy.”

Sherlock wriggled, evidently torn between pushing towards John’s hand or the cock nestled between his cheeks. “It has its merits.”

With a final squeeze, John abandoned Sherlock’s prick in favor of pressing his buttocks together. He thrusted forward, watching his glans peek out and disappear between plump spheres. God, what a sight.

“I wish I could take a picture,” John sighed before he noticed he was saying it.

Sherlock huffed a few breaths, pushed back against John, swallowed. “You could. I’ll fetch your mobile for you.”

The metronomic sound of water sloshing between their bodies increased tempo, John’s thighs slapping against Sherlock’s. Oh God, yes. What a thought, having this vision to peruse whenever he felt like it. They were definitely going to do that. Later. At the moment, there was nothing in the world he would do if it meant stopping.

He grabbed Sherlock’s hair, his other hand gripping Sherlock’s arse, holding him in place as the tension ramped in John’s groin. _That’s it. That’s it._ “Oh, fuck. You’d like that. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gruffed through breathy pants. “Yes.”

“Send it”--John grunted, his vision tunneling--“Send it to Mary. Watch the fireworks.”

Sherlock groaned. One hand abandoned its place at the edge of the tub, snaking down his abdomen.

“Don’t,” John bit. “Not yet.”

Even through his lust-addled haze, John could hear Sherlock’s hand slapping against the porcelain.

“You want her jealous,” John panted. “You want her seething. _Fuck!_ ”

The roar that ripped from Sherlock’s throat was feral, equal parts arousal and frustration, and it only made John thrust harder. Sherlock’s head drooped, making John’s fingers slide from his hair to the nape of his neck. John held him there, the blade of his hand pushing into the top of Sherlock’s shoulder as he pulled Sherlock against him again and again, harder and harder.

“She won’t like Daddy’s new toy,” Sherlock rumbled.

“Oh fuck,” came out strangled. John’s eyes slammed shut, his hips racing, then faltering. His orgasm burnt through him like a fuze, lighting fireworks on his skin. His cock jumped in its confines and worked its way free of Sherlock’s cleft so that John was forced to let go of Sherlock’s hip to work himself through it. He shivered, his skin buzzing with the embers of the last of the aftershocks.

He had wanted to watch himself spend, see the streaks as they were drawn over Sherlock’s back, but he hadn’t been able to open his eyes. He had to settle for blinking them into focus as the hazy room came back into view, but God. As second choices went, this one was spectacular.

Sherlock’s back was still tense with arousal, his body thrumming with anticipation so intense that John could see it. The lustrous come on pale skin would have been nearly invisible if not for the wet reflection bouncing off each streak.

John rubbed his palm over them until he couldn’t discern the textures, until no bit of skin on Sherlock’s back was bare.

“Go on,” John said, sitting back on his heels. “Your turn.”

Sherlock did as he was asked, and it only took a moment before his breath grew ragged, before his glutes flexed. John hummed in sleepy satisfaction, grabbing the flannel from its resting place. After dipping it in the water, he raised it to Sherlock’s shoulder, but before he could do anything more, Sherlock interrupted.

“Leave it. I want it there.”

“My God,” John sighed. “You are a wonder.”

Sherlock’s hand flew over his cock. His body hunched. Little grunts made their way through the ragged breaths. He was close. So close.

“Allow me one indulgence?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded vigorously.

John came up on his knees, licking a stripe from between Sherlock’s shoulder blades to his nape. He tasted elemental, primal, and it made John growl, cocking his head to sink his teeth into the base of Sherlock’s neck. He felt wild and possessive, as if fading teeth marks would give him sole claim over Sherlock’s body.

His higher functions nudged at him that it was ridiculous, that Sherlock could not be owned, for one thing, but his primitive hindbrain was clearly the one in charge as he found himself snarling, “Mine.”

Immediately, Sherlock’s back arched. His head threw back, clacking against John’s temple, but John couldn’t care about the moment of pain because Sherlock was clearly coming. His shoulders pressed against John, and his head lolled back so that John was surrounded as low, guttural grunts and moans punched out of him in time with each surge of come.

“Incredible,” John said, soothing the bite marks with his thumb as Sherlock spasmed with aftershocks. He let Sherlock rest his head on John’s shoulder. Brushing his fingers over Sherlock’s throat, he asked, “Good?”

Sherlock hummed his affirmation, swallowed, licked his lips, and then blindly sought John’s lips with his own. Even though the angle was awkward, John obliged him. It was a messy drag of lips, sluggish and sleepy, at least on Sherlock’s part. Two orgasms in one morning will do that to a person.

John smiled against Sherlock’s lips, licked into his mouth until Sherlock responded in kind, slid his tongue against John’s. A sharp intake of breath through Sherlock’s nose, and John remembered an important detail.

“Can you taste us on my tongue?”

Sherlock groaned, seeking out John’s tongue.

“What do you think?” John asked before allowing Sherlock another sample.

“Delicious.”

With a final peck to Sherlock’s lips, John sat back. “I suppose we should finish up. Would you like me to clean your back?”

“No. I want to keep it.”

Oh God, John wasn't the only one getting off on marking Sherlock. Hope surged in John’s chest that he could keep Sherlock a bit longer. He sloshed back in the tub, letting water splash over the edge. Best Saturday in history, and it wasn't even nine o’clock.

“I’ll need to leave soon,” Sherlock said.

John tried not to show his disappointment. “Oh?”

“Double shift.”

“When can I see you again?”

Sherlock stepped out of the tub, throwing a saucy smirk over his shoulder. “You know where I work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta.
> 
> ...
> 
> and apologies to Mary.


	3. Chapter 3

John shouldered his way through his front door, tossing his keys on the coffee table. He had intended to have dinner at Sherlock’s restaurant. In fact, he’d spent most of the day fantasizing about what would happen when he got there. He’d imagined dragging Sherlock into the disabled cubicle in the loo. He’d imagined meaningful glances over a glass of wine, enjoying his meal with the taste of come still on his tongue. He’d imagined lingering after closing, fondling in a cab, and another night of fantastic sex to follow.

Instead, he got called in for emergency surgery. Hours on his feet and a fresh pile of paperwork after he’d finally cleared the stack. Not to mention the guilt he felt for actually being disappointed that he had the opportunity to save someone’s life today. Now it was nearly one a.m. and he was exhausted, grubby, and fucking starving, and with nothing in to boot.

He supposed that was what he got for eating out all the time.

He flopped to the sofa, checking his phone for late night takeaway options, preferably with delivery. But, just a few items down the disappointing list, someone knocked on the door.

John peered over his phone, confused at the late night intrusion. He couldn’t see another option of who might be at his door at such a late hour, but he didn’t dare hope.

No, that was a lie. Hope propelled him off the sofa and all the way to the door. When he opened it, he could only grin and sigh in relief.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” John asked with a wink.

Sherlock walked right in like he owned the place. “Out past curfew, am I?”

John chuckled as he closed the door, and Sherlock spun, offering him a bag.

“What’s this,” John asked.

“Food. I could only assume from your absence that you hadn’t eaten.”

John took the bag. “Thank you. You assumed correctly.” He set the bag on the coffee table and resumed his place on the sofa. “Why don’t you take off your coat and stay awhile?”

“Gladly.” Sherlock did as requested, revealing his rumpled uniform. God, if John’s blood sugar weren’t so dangerously low, he would have shoved Sherlock against the wall and snogged the living shit out of him right that second. Instead, he pulled a polystyrene box from the bag and popped the lid.

“It’s a sandwich,” Sherlock offered, draping his coat over the arm of the sofa.

“Thank you. I gathered as much.” John picked up one diagonally-cut half and took a bite, humming at the taste.

“Arugula, tomato, and buffalo mozzarella with a garlic aioli.” He sat next to John, leaving only a whisper of space between them.

“Delicious.”

Sherlock’s fingertips swirled over John’s knee before inching up his inseam. “That was rather naughty of you, making me wait.”

“No choice,” John said around a mouthful. “Surgery.”

Sherlock nosed at the side of John’s neck. “Disappointing.”

John couldn’t help tilting his head to allow Sherlock better access. “For you and me both.”

“I had plans for you, you know?”

As Sherlock’s hand reached the crux of his inseam, John sighed, settling back into the cushions. “Tomorrow.”

Sherlock hummed, his tongue flicking out to taste a spot behind John’s ear. “I don’t work tomorrow.”

John’s stomach growled, and though his face scrunched at the rude reminder, he took another bite of his sandwich. “You could always trade shifts.”

“No. The money’s no good on Sundays.”

“I’m an excellent tipper.”

Sherlock's chuckle rumbled in John’s ear as Sherlock's palm pressed against John’s groin. “I remember. But you’re unreliable.”

John gasped as his hips kicked against Sherlock's hand. “I won't have the energy to make it up to you if you keep distracting me from eating.”

Sherlock flicked open the top button of John’s jeans. “Then concentrate.”

With that, Sherlock slid off the sofa to kneel on the floor. His smirk was undeniably dirty as he dragged down John’s zip and settled between his thighs.

“Go on.” Sherlock reached past the fly of John's boxers. “Eat.”

Dear God, John was in trouble. He took a bite, struggling to chew as his breath quavered. Sherlock's fingers grazed over John's bollocks, ruffling the hair before they continued their journey up the underside of John’s cock.

“I loved having you in my mouth last night.”

John nearly choked, but after a difficult swallow, he took another bite. His prick did not have such trouble; it swelled quite well under Sherlock's insistent touch.

“I wanted so badly to suck you under the table.”

“Christ.” John’s cock surged at the words, at the filthy images that flooded his brain.

Sherlock’s hand stilled. “You’re not eating.”

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, taking a pointed bite, and Sherlock drew John’s cock out through the fly in his boxers. The dilation of Sherlock’s pupils was clearly visible as he licked his lips. God, those lips. As much as John would have loved to have Sherlock sucking him off under a table, hidden from sight as John struggled to keep his composure, he was glad that he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to see Sherlock’s heart-shaped lips sliding up and down his cock.

But, such a sight was not to be forthcoming. Instead of drawing John’s prick into his mouth, he curled his fingers around it, gently pulling the foreskin over the glans and back again. It was barely enough pressure to be called a tease, but it made John squirm all the same. Admittedly, the sight had a lot to do with it.

After several loose sweeps of Sherlock’s hand, the sandwich threatening to tumble apart in John’s grip, John huffed, “What happened to wanting me in your mouth?”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted. His eyes sparkled. “If you don’t have the wherewithal to eat your sandwich while I do this, I can’t imagine how you’d handle what I have in store for you.”

“Jesus Christ,” John sighed, half arousal, half exasperation. “Fine.”

With that, he stuffed the remainder into his mouth. He chewed as quickly as he could and swallowed it down. Suddenly, he wished he had something to drink, but after a few more swallows--and a few more gentle tugs from Sherlock--he managed to speak again.

“Happy?” John asked.

Sherlock peered over his shoulder. “You still have half of it left.”

With a growl, John grabbed Sherlock under the arms and dragged him up until John could get a proper grip on his face. Before Sherlock could get a word in, John kissed him, pressing his tongue hard against Sherlock’s to prevent whatever smart-arse reply that was waiting there. He tugged Sherlock’s rumpled shirt from his trousers, and his mouth watered at the aroma of sweat and Italian food that wafted up. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock’s mouth tasted of smoke and fresh mint, and John felt certain those combined flavors were going to become positively Pavlovian.

Once Sherlock was keening into John’s mouth, and John was certain Sherlock’s comeback had flown the coop, he broke away. “After. We have more pressing issues to attend to.”

Sherlock panted against John’s mouth, chasing another kiss, which John denied. “Such as?”

“Such as shutting down that beautiful brain of yours.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Sherlock moaned.

John cocked his head to press a kiss to Sherlock’s pulse point, murmuring in his ear, “There’s my good lad.”

Sherlock shivered as a breathy grunt pushed from his lungs.

“Now,” John continued, running the tip of his nose over Sherlock’s earlobe. “Here’s what I want you to do. First, get me back in my trousers, and then hop in the shower.” John ran his fingers down the small of Sherlock's back, stopping only when he reached the swell of buttocks, pressing into the cleft. “Get yourself nice and clean because I plan to lick you until you’re desperate.”

Sherlock pressed back against John’s hand. “It won't take much.”

“Oh, love.” John drew his hands away, but not before landing a firm smack on one arse cheek. “You don't know desperate.”

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock rumbled. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

John smiled. He still couldn't believe that he would be lucky enough to spend another night with this beautiful, brilliant man. “So have I, but I stand by my statement. I'm going to make you beg.”

Sherlock's hips kicked forward, pressing the length of him to John’s thigh. He was already as hard as steel, and it took all of John’s willpower not to touch him.

“Now, what did I tell you to do? Don't make me ask again.”

Sherlock shuffled backwards, reaching for John’s pants. “Yes, Daddy.”

Sherlock lifted the fabric of John’s pants, ready to tuck him back in, but before he made the final move, he paused. His eyes caught on something, and as John followed Sherlock’s gaze, he spotted it. A single bead of precome clung to the tip of John’s cock.

“Go ahead,” John offered. “I know you want to.”

With a contented sigh, Sherlock sank down, curling his tongue over John’s slit. He drew his tongue into his mouth around a moan, and before John could take a breath, Sherlock’s tongue was out again, wriggling over John’s slit and down his frenulum.

Though it pained John to do it, he tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair and tugged him away. “Don't push your limits.”

Sherlock nodded, his hair straining against John’s grip.

“What do you say, hmm?”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

John released Sherlock's hair, soothing the scalp with his fingertips. “There, there. Just do as Daddy asked, and all will be forgiven.”

Without another word, Sherlock tucked John back into his pants and arranged his jeans back into their proper place, if a bit distended. Then, he stood, smoothing down the front of his trousers as if it would accomplish anything. A whole platoon could have camped in there.

John’s face drifted forward despite his best efforts to keep still. In another second, he would have been nuzzling into the fabric, taking in the full power of the scent of a hard day’s work and probably loving every second of it, but Sherlock stepped away for the bathroom. John let out a long breath, his cock throbbing in his jeans. He peeked over his shoulder, only to catch a tantalizing view of Sherlock stepping out of his trousers.

His pants should be illegal.

With another deep breath, John steeled his nerves. No matter how much John longed to bend Sherlock over the nearest available piece of furniture and fuck them both into oblivion, he knew that patience would push this night over the boundary from good to fantastic. Sure, quick and dirty had its merits, but turning Sherlock into a mess of yearning lust was far more desirable. Just the knowledge that he was capable made him dizzy from the blood rushing south.

John shook himself from his reverie at the sound of running water, flipping closed the polystyrene box and walking it to the kitchen. He slipped it into the fridge and closed the door, but all he saw were images of what Sherlock must be doing in the shower, of long fingers trailing over soapy skin. He ran his hands over his face as he pushed out a breath. There was simply no question of it anymore. He was in trouble.

He tugged his shirt from his body, trying to get some cool air to his over-heating skin, but he only served to remind himself just how grubby he was. Why the hell did he tell Sherlock to take a shower by himself? He should be in there right now with long fingers trailing over _his_ soapy skin.

Resolve broken, John stumbled over his own feet on his way from the kitchen, through the sitting room, and down the short hall to his bedroom. Though no lights were on in the bedroom, light poured in from the open bathroom door, illuminating the bed like a spotlight. John had no conscious thought besides what awaited him in that room, and it felt like he was floating rather than walking as he crossed into the steamy light.

Sherlock stood at the center of the shower stall, his back to John. His head drooped, water sluicing over his hair, and his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as he worked a flannel between his cheeks. His other hand was braced on the tile, fingers digging into the wall. 

John stopped dead, mesmerized by the sight. “Shit.”

Sherlock jumped, hands flying from their places like they’d been burned as he spun on John. His face was a mask of frozen shock. The only part of it moving were his eyelids, fluttering like hummingbird wings.

John opened his mouth to explain, but thought better of it. No need to hedge. He was the one in charge here, right? So, without another word, he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped trou, leaving his clothes where they fell as he crossed the room. 

When John opened the door, Sherlock was still in the same position with the same expression on his face.

“Budge up, will you?” John squeezed his way in as Sherlock stumbled back. “You’re letting out all the hot air.”

Once the door was closed behind them, Sherlock snapped out of it. “What are you doing?”

“You’re not the only one who needs a wash. Are you complaining?” John asked as he eased the flannel from Sherlock’s grip.

Sherlock shook his head, making droplets of water fall from his hair. “You startled me.”

John smirked. “I noticed.” Holding the flannel under the water, watching the suds rinse away, he frowned. “Maybe not this one.”

John didn’t think it would have been possible for Sherlock’s skin to flush any more under the hot spray, but his face lit up like a stop light. It was adorable, and John couldn’t help but place a kiss to each bright spot of color on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“I’ll just grab a fresh one, shall I?” asked John.

Sherlock nodded.

“All finished?”

Sherlock nodded again, but just as John cracked open the door, Sherlock blurted, “Unless…”

John’s eyebrows rose as he held the door. “Unless?”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip as he stared at John’s feet. Oh God, he was afraid to ask, which meant it was probably filthy. John shuddered.

Using his thumb to urge Sherlock’s lip from between his teeth, John asked, “Unless what, love?”

Sherlock chased John’s thumb with his mouth, catching it between his teeth and sucking as his tongue wriggled against the pad.

John’s cock throbbed at the promise, but he pulled his thumb from Sherlock’s grip, rubbing it along Sherlock’s bottom lip. “We’ll never make it out of this shower if you keep doing things like that, you naughty boy.”

Sherlock’s fingers curled over John’s wrist. “That would be all right.”

“You”--John tugged Sherlock closer--“are going to be the death of me.”

“Not soon, I hope.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s before John could process the words, but their full meaning hit him a moment later, making him surge forward. He pressed Sherlock back against the slick shower wall, boxing him in. Surely that meant John was more that just an experiment to Sherlock, that Sherlock might be as into this as John was.

John pressed his thigh between Sherlock’s, letting Sherlock’s cock slide against his hip, his bollocks against John’s leg. He was so hard, throbbing against John’s thigh, hips circling. His kisses grew sloppy, his breath ragged. His fingers dug into John’s shoulders, and John swelled with pride and… other things.

“I love you like this,” John said, gripping Sherlock’s arse in both hands, fingers straying to the cleft. “So needy.”

As John’s fingers slid between Sherlock’s cheeks, still slippery with soap, Sherlock murmured against John’s mouth, “And you said I didn’t know desperate.”

Oh, that was the wrong thing to say. Or really, it was exactly right because those words along with the soap on John’s fingers reminded him with crystal precision what he had planned to do. He didn’t just want to hear that voice breathy with need. He wanted to hear it beg. He wanted Sherlock to forget everything except how his body felt, how John made him feel. He wanted Sherlock to forget his own name.

John stepped back, letting his fingers drop from Sherlock’s arse with some regret. “You don’t.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. “Joh--”

John held up a finger, cocking his ear towards Sherlock. “What’s that?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, his head thumping against the wall, but his hips pushed forward, his cock curling towards his stomach. When his voice came out, it was rough and quiet. “Daddy.”

“There we go.” John felt calm, powerful. He finally felt in control again, all doubts erased, at least for the moment. He took Sherlock’s cock into his hand, running his loose fist up and down Sherlock’s length. “Are you ready to be patient now?”

Sherlock nodded, his lip once again pinched between his teeth.

“Good lad.” John released Sherlock and gave him a pat on the bum. “Now, I’ll just grab a new flannel, and we can get back to it. All right?”

Sherlock nodded again.

John reached for the door but paused before opening it. “Well?”

Sherlock grunted, part frustration and part arousal, but mostly the latter. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Very good.”

John walked out of the cubicle, shivering more from the anticipation than the cold air on his skin as he fetched a flannel and came back. Sherlock was in much the same position as John left him, his fists clenching and releasing at his sides.

John closed the door behind himself. “You want to touch yourself, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s head lifted and lowered once, but quickly stuttered to a stop. “Yes, Daddy. Can I?”

“No,” John replied, picking up one of Sherlock’s hands to place the flannel into it. “But I can give you something to do with them.”

As Sherlock faced the water, wet the flannel, and squeezed soap onto it, John circled behind him. Water glistened on his skin, beading up along his shoulders blades until the droplets grew too heavy and rolled down his back. John chased one with his tongue, and Sherlock gasped.

John smiled against Sherlock’s skin, dragging his tongue between Sherlock’s shoulders and on up to his neck, where he nibbled at the bite marks from that morning. “Did you clean off my come before you went to work?”

Sherlock shivered. “No.”

“What about these?” John pressed his fingers to the bite marks. “Were you able to hide them under your collar?”

Sherlock turned, lathering up the soap. “I didn’t try.”

John guided Sherlock’s hand with the flannel to his chest. “Tell me why.”

Sherlock scrubbed John’s chest, his stomach, his arms. “I wanted people to see.”

Oh, it was making John dizzy. “To see what?”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to John’s forearms like he needed all his concentration to clean them. He shifted on his feet.

John pressed up on Sherlock’s jaw until their eyes met. “To see what?”

Sherlock’s response was barely audible. “That I’m yours.”

Warmth suffused through John that had nothing to do with their surroundings, and with his hand still under Sherlock’s jaw, he placed a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Good.”

With one more sweep of his thumb against Sherlock’s lower lip, John turned around, and Sherlock got to work on his back. He stepped up close to John, their bodies not quite touching but with barely enough room between them to allow Sherlock’s hand space to move. He kissed the nape of John’s neck and ran the wet fingers of his free hand through John’s hair.

John reached behind him to give Sherlock’s hip a squeeze. “Have you ever given a hand job, Sherlock?”

The flannel paused at the small of John’s back. “No.”

“Care to try?”

The flannel tumbled down John’s backside to land with a splat on the shower floor. “What about…”

John found Sherlock’s elbow and followed the line of his arm down to his right hand. “Don’t worry. I plan to finish in your arse tonight.”

Sherlock’s breath gusted over the back of John’s neck, and he settled closer, allowing John to bring his hand around and guide it to John’s cock. John curled his fingers over the back of Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock followed suit until he formed a loose fist around John.

“That’s it,” John said as he pulled his hand away, laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Show me how you like it.”

Sherlock’s fingers rippled in a tentative squeeze.

“Feeling shy, are we?”

Sherlock worked John’s foreskin up, massaging the glans, but his movements were halting, just this side of too gentle. “I don’t really…”

“What?” John wrapped his hand over Sherlock’s, urging him to squeeze tighter.

“I don’t masturbate often. I find it boring.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Sherlock blurted. His forehead dropped to John’s shoulder. “Tell me what to do.”

It was tempting, John had to admit, but the visions that insisted on swirling in his head were not of Sherlock in the shower with his hand around John’s cock. When he closed his eyes, he saw Sherlock naked at the center of the bed, propped on pillows as he worked his own cock. He saw himself off to the side, watching, instructing. He saw Sherlock bringing himself to the perilous edge under John’s tutelage and then backing off again and again until Sherlock looked as if he might break apart. See if he found masturbating boring after that.

John tilted his head back until he could speak into Sherlock’s ear. “I have a different plan in mind. For now, why don’t you do my bottom half and we can get out of the shower, hmm?”

Sherlock nodded against John’s shoulder. “All right.”

Dropping to his knees, Sherlock picked up the flannel and spread suds over John’s arse, teasing fingers between John’s cheeks.

John came up on his toes with a suppressed yelp. “That wasn’t part of the instructions, love.”

John could hear the smirk in Sherlock’s voice. “You wouldn’t deny me this small indulgence, would you?”

“Fine.” John shook his head. “Consider it indulged. Onto the legs now, please.”

Sherlock did as he was asked, working all the way down the back of John’s legs before reaching around to get the front. Once Sherlock reached John’s kneecaps, John turned around, watching as Sherlock studiously cleaned his thighs, the tops of his hips, his lower abdomen.

“Forgetting something, are we?” John asked with a raised eyebrow.

“No, Daddy. I thought you might rather I lick it clean.”

John tangled his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, guiding him to tilt his face until he could look John in the eye. “What did I tell you about testing your boundaries?”

Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips, avoiding John’s gaze. “Sorry, Daddy.”

“Good. Now finish doing what I asked.”

John kept his grip on Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock completed his task. The flannel was a bit too rough on John’s sensitized skin, and it made him shudder, but then clean hands were on him, making sure every nook and cranny was rinsed. Or at least, Sherlock tried to give the appearance that that was what he was doing.

John released his grip, rubbing his fingertips against Sherlock’s scalp. “Good job. Now stand up.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

As Sherlock stood, John crowded into his space, placing a small kiss on the corner of his mouth. “Are you all cleaned up?”

Sherlock nodded, his face flushing once again. “Would you check my work?”

 _Oh, God._ “Is that what you wanted to ask me before?”

Sherlock nodded.

“All right.” John shut off the water, cocking his head to the side. “Dry off and get on the bed.”

The skin above Sherlock’s nose wrinkled like a freshly plowed field. “You don’t want to do it here?”

“No.” John patted Sherlock’s arse. “Scoot.”

With a huff, Sherlock opened the shower door and stepped into the cool air of the bathroom. Goosebumps prickled every inch of his skin, and John couldn’t resist the urge to rub them away, sweeping his palms down Sherlock’s back, massaging his biceps. Sherlock pressed himself against the line of John’s body, bending his knees until John’s cock could nestle in his cleft. John palmed Sherlock’s cheeks, lifting them up and fingering the boundary between arse and thigh. 

“You have the most magnificent arse. I can’t wait to get my mouth on it,” he growled, grazing his teeth over Sherlock’s shoulder blades. He couldn’t stop touching, his hips canting, his glutes flexing. His cock drew wet lines on Sherlock’s damp skin, criss-crosses at the small of his back. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”

Sherlock shivered, his hips jumping backwards so abruptly that he almost lost his balance. “Never?”

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist to hold him still, the other hand wrapping around Sherlock’s cock. He worked it hard and fast, savoring the shudders and aborted thrusts running through Sherlock’s body. It wouldn’t take long to make him come like this, and John wasn’t sure he wanted to stop. He wanted to feel Sherlock come apart in his arms more than anything. Would he lose his balance? Would he sag into John’s arms? Would John have to guide him to the bed like a rag doll? He pictured himself arranging Sherlock’s sated body into position, licking him until he was hard again, until he was keening and humping the mattress.

Yes, that was what he wanted.

So, gripping Sherlock tight around the waist, John sped the movements of his hand. Sherlock’s breath shuddered out and in, gaining speed and intensity as his body struggled against John’s grip to thrust into John’s fist. Soon, Sherlock’s breath was gusting out on breathy utterances that never quite formed a word, and it made John tingle from head to toe.

“That’s it, love,” John murmured, circling his hips against Sherlock’s arse. “How does it feel?”

“It’s so,” he panted, “much.”

John groaned, pressing his face to Sherlock’s back. He could feel every pant, every grunt, every word course through Sherlock’s body. He was shaking. His legs were quivering, about to collapse.

“Too rough?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, curls throwing a spray of water over John’s head.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” John huffed. He was getting swept away on Sherlock’s body, his own thrumming for more. God, what a beautiful, sexy, amazing creature. How did this happen? How could such a pinnacle of humanity want John like this? How could he be so keen for the world to know he was John’s? 

“Yes,” Sherlock huffed, riding the tide of his own body. “Please.”

John gripped Sherlock’s cock a bit tighter, letting Sherlock control the rhythm as he released Sherlock’s waist. Sliding his hand over Sherlock’s hip, down his arse, and between his legs, he found Sherlock’s perineum and pushed. Hard.

He could feel muscles clench and release against his fingers as Sherlock’s cock jumped in his hands, spending over John’s fingers. Sherlock groaned through it, his head collapsing to John’s shoulder as the rest of his body pressed towards John’s hands.

John gentled Sherlock through the aftershocks, and just as John expected, Sherlock slumped like a rag doll. Easing his way down, John let Sherlock fall to his knees, and Sherlock breathed out a long sigh, stretching his neck back to seek John’s body behind him.

John let him, guiding Sherlock’s head to his thigh and combing through the still-damp curls as Sherlock caught his breath. His mouth was open, lips swollen from biting, and when Sherlock’s tongue snaked out to wet his lips, the last of John’s resolve broke. He had to have Sherlock right in that moment. He couldn’t wait even one more second.

He grabbed Sherlock’s nape and circled to his front in one step, spinning on his heel. “Open up.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open, his breath still coming fast. He hadn’t even opened his eyes since coming, but he knew exactly what was coming because the moment John’s cock touched his tongue, his lips were tight around it. He sucked John down to the root, moaning through it until John’s cock blocked his airway. And then he stayed there, shaking his head like a dog with a bone. John could feel the back of Sherlock’s throat slide back and forth over the tip of his cock, and it made him lose his balance. He caught himself on the edge of the shower, but he soon realized that it didn’t matter. Sherlock’s hands were enveloping his buttocks, his forearms bracketing his thighs. He pulled back enough to take a breath, letting it out on a moan until his airway was blocked again.

How did he know how to do this? Everything else about him telegraphed his inexperience, but he swallowed cock like an expert. The onslaught of sensation was like nothing else, and just the knowledge of how Sherlock was sacrificing himself to allow John the experience made his cock surge and throb. It made him light headed. It made him want to worship at the altar of Sherlock for the rest of his days.

“Sherlock,” John grunted. “I’m close. I’m-- I’m gonna--”

John tried to pull away, to allow Sherlock some breathing room at the very least, but Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s arse, and he jerked John’s hips forward on an aborted growl.

“Jesu--” John began, but then he spilled over the edge, body convulsing. He went silent, unable to do anything but release into Sherlock’s throat. He felt the heat of his come bloom around the head of his cock only to be swept away on a swallow that urged his body on. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come so hard and so long. Hell, he couldn’t remember where he was.

Slowly, the buzzing in his ears subsided. He heard the rhythm of two pairs of lungs taking air in and out. He felt the plush bath mat beneath his toes. He breathed in the smell of sex and soap and steam. Finally, he opened his eyes to see Sherlock nuzzling his nose to John’s thigh, his own fingers combing through Sherlock’s hair.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“I wa--” Sherlock’s voice came out hoarse and froggy. He cleared his throat. “I solved a murder at the circus.”

John burst into giggles. As if that answered anything instead of raising several new questions. “Are you telling me that you swallowed swords?”

Sherlock shrugged, thumbs twiddling in his lap. “I needed a cover.”

John dropped to his knees, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair until he could caress his nape, and kissed Sherlock. “You’ll stay the night, won’t you?”

Sherlock frowned, bottom lip jutting. “What about what you promised me?”

John shivered, but his cock did not appear to share his opinion. “I’m sorry, love. I’ll make it up to you in the morning?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but John didn’t miss the way his mouth twisted and twitched. “Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta.
> 
> John's amends are coming soon.


	4. Chapter 4

Fingers drew shapes and swirls over John’s hip, warm breath stirring the hairs on his neck. He sighed and settled into the weight at his back.

“Wake up, John,” rumbled a deep voice in his ear. The fingers on his hips tugged, bringing his arse into contact with his companion’s groin, hot cock probing at his thighs.

John hummed, trailing his fingertips over the back of Sherlock’s hand. “What time is it?”

Sherlock nosed at John’s ear as his voice buzzed across John’s lobe. “Seven.”

John stretched. “What has you up so early?”

“I believe that is self evident,” Sherlock said, rolling his hips towards John.

John hummed, reaching down to curl a lazy fist around Sherlock’s length. “You’re insatiable.”

Sherlock pushed into John’s hand. “You love it.”

“God help me; I do.”

Sherlock propped himself on his elbow, curling his shoulders over John’s body to kiss him. It was brief and gentle, just a bit of suction on John’s top lip before Sherlock broke away.

John licked his lips, tasting mint. “You brushed your teeth.”

Sherlock smirked before swooping to John’s neck. “I washed, too.”

John raised an eyebrow, eyes finally blinking into full focus at Sherlock’s words. “Oh?”

Sherlock nosed at John’s jaw until John tilted his head. After grazing his teeth over John’s pulse point, he murmured, “Care to have a look?”

John squeezed Sherlock’s cock in a wave before releasing it. As he squirmed out from under Sherlock, he huffed, “God, yeah.”

John slid off the bed to stand, and Sherlock sat up, shifting his legs under him to sit on his heels. His legs were spread, offering John a tantalizing view of his balls just barely brushing the sheet underneath him. His cock was hard and flushed, foreskin fully retracted and glans glistening. His hands swept up and down his own thighs in some combination of seduction and nerves.

John placed one knee on the bed between Sherlock’s legs, reaching towards the crux. He slid his hand between Sherlock and the sheet to cup his bollocks, slide his fingers over Sherlock’s perineum.

John’s tongue dragged along his lower lip as he watched his own hand. “Look at you. My beautiful boy, so hard for me.”

Sherlock groaned, and his hands flew to the mattress behind him, using them as leverage to tilt his hips.

Finally, John’s cock began to twitch to life. Three spectacular orgasms in less than two days had left him sluggish to respond, but he was grateful for it. He wouldn’t have his impatient cock getting in the way of all the things he wanted to do with Sherlock. He could take his time, stripping away artifice one lick at a time until all that was left was base, salacious id.

John dropped his hand to his side. “I’m going to use some mouthwash. When I return, I want you on your knees, hands on the headboard.”

Sherlock swallowed, nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good lad.”

***

When John returned, the duvet had been flung off the bed, and Sherlock kneeled at the head of the bed, his hands resting on the top of the headboard.

John shook his head. “Oh, love. This is my fault.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around, deep crinkles appearing above his nose. “What?”

“I wasn’t specific enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

John sat on the bed. “That’s not how I want you.”

Sherlock turned back, studying the headboard like it might reveal a great secret. “It isn’t?”

“No.” John reached for Sherlock’s thighs, tugging them back, and Sherlock stiffened. “All right?”

“Fine. You startled me.”

“Oh.” John swept his fingers down Sherlock’s inner thigh, and the skin jumped under his touch. He smiled. “You mean I tickled you.”

“I meant no such thing.”

John knelt behind Sherlock, knocking his knees apart so John could get between them. Meanwhile, he brushed his fingers up Sherlock’s hips, over the lines of his abdominal muscles, across his non-existent love handles. Sherlock’s muscles twitched under his fingertips, goosebumps prickling up along the nape of his neck, but otherwise he remained impassive.

John walked his fingers up Sherlock’s sides. “We have ways of making you talk, Mr. Bond.”

John’s fingertips met with Sherlock’s underarms, and Sherlock burst into laughter, his spine curling like a charmed cobra.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed, clamping down his arms. “I’m ticklish. Happy now?”

“Yes.”

With that, John pushed himself back, catching Sherlock around the waist to drag him along until they were both halfway down the bed.

His arm still braced around Sherlock’s waist, John pressed his body to Sherlock’s, growling in his ear, “Now grab the headboard.”

With only a rough gust of breath, Sherlock walked his hands out until he could reach the headboard, putting his torso nearly parallel with the bed.

“That’s it,” John said, releasing Sherlock’s waist to stroke a hand down his back. He stopped at Sherlock’s coccyx, rubbing at it until Sherlock arched his back. Next, he grabbed each knee one at a time, easing them out until Sherlock’s position was just right.

The position put Sherlock on display perfectly from the long muscles of his arms and back to his plush arse to his cock and balls hanging beneath him like ripe fruit. John’s cock was quickly approaching something which could be called fervent interest just by admiring his handiwork.

John pinched his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger as he surveyed the scene. “My mobile’s on the bedside table. Hand it to me, will you, love?”

Sherlock’s restraint was admirable. He barely moved from position, only stretching out one arm to the bedside table and sliding the mobile down the sheet before resuming, body displayed just as nicely as John had placed it.

“Gorgeous.” John brought up the camera on his phone, framing it so Sherlock’s entire body was visible. It paled in comparison to the real thing right in front of him, but he was sure he would cherish this image. Sherlock looked edible, decadent, already debauched before John had even touched him. God, just the thought of wanking to it later was turning him on.

He framed up another photo. “Look over your shoulder at me.”

Sherlock did as he was asked, gaze dark and intense at the camera lens. John snapped the picture.

“God.” John stared at the screen as he petted down Sherlock’s back, over his arse, finally reaching underneath to cup his balls. Tearing his gaze away, he watched the way Sherlock moved in his hand, the pulse of his cock, the arch of his back. “Do you have any idea how you look?”

“Always talking about how I look,” Sherlock tutted, effect somewhat ruined as his voice broke. “Awfully shallow of you, doctor.”

John released Sherlock’s bollocks to smack him on the arse, eliciting a grunt and a preen. “And just how would you react confronted with this?”

John leaned over Sherlock’s body, tossing the phone onto the pillow below Sherlock’s head. He had planned to toss it and back off, but once there, he couldn’t help pushing against Sherlock, his glans sliding over Sherlock’s balls, before dragging his body back down. He licked the small of Sherlock’s back and glanced up to find Sherlock’s hand leaving the headboard to pick up the phone, swiping between the two pictures.

John grazed his teeth over Sherlock’s coccyx, dipping his tongue between Sherlock’s cheeks. “Like what you see?”

Sherlock didn’t answer at first. His breath was quick, his thighs trembling.

John dipped down to breathe hot on Sherlock’s perineum. “Well, do you?”

Sherlock tossed the phone aside, bracing himself on the headboard to push back against John’s mouth.

John pulled back. “Not until you answer my question.”

“It’s pornographic.”

“That’s the point. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can delete them.” John licked a long line from Sherlock’s perineum to the base of his spine.

Sherlock shuddered. “Keep them. Don’t stop.”

John pressed his palms to Sherlock’s arse cheeks, pushing them apart, watching the skin stretch, the perfect pink bud of Sherlock’s arsehole open like a surprised mouth. He started at Sherlock’s perineum again, just behind his bollocks, dragging his tongue up until he could flick it against Sherlock’s hole. He did it again, long slow licks that teased at the places Sherlock would most want John’s mouth. He tasted like John’s soap, but the more John licked, the more Sherlock’s own scents and flavors came to the forefront. Salt and skin and musk. He could smell Sherlock’s arousal, feel it in every shudder of his body, but the man himself was remarkably quiet.

That just wouldn’t do.

John dived in, pressing his wide open mouth to Sherlock’s cleft. He growled against Sherlock’s skin as he pressed his tongue to Sherlock’s hole, licking it in circles.

Sherlock gasped, his head popping up like he’d been hit with an electric shock. His back arched, pushing him against John’s mouth, and his knees slipped underneath him. John didn’t relent; his tongue moved fast and hard, licking over, pressing in.

Finally, Sherlock moaned. “Oh God. _John_.”

_That’s it_ , John thought, pressing the heel of his hand to Sherlock’s balls. _Let me hear you._

He moaned into Sherlock’s skin, and it vibrated under his lips, making Sherlock tremble.

“Yes.” Sherlock rocked back, his arms rippling with tension. “Fuck me, Daddy.”

_Yes._ The words made John’s cock throb, but he stayed where he was. He wasn’t going to let his resolve break this time. He was going to push Sherlock to his limits, make him beg, whimper, plead. Oh, it was going to be beautiful.

John pulled away to survey his work, rolling Sherlock’s balls in his hands, pressing against Sherlock’s sphincter with his thumb, and it was then that he noticed Sherlock’s hips. The movement was small, barely more than a twitch, but there was a clear rhythm to it. It was gorgeous in its own way. Sherlock was panting hard and heavy, and his head lolled back, his mouth wide open, eyes closed. His fingers held tight to the headboard, tense with arousal. He probably didn’t realize what he was doing, but when John skimmed his hand down the underside of Sherlock’s cock, he found that each twitch rubbed Sherlock’s frenulum against the sheet.

“Oh, no you don’t.” John grabbed Sherlock by the hips and lifted until Sherlock’s cock broke contact with the bed, leaving behind a small circle of dampness. John paused for a moment to run his fingers over it. Lovely.

Sherlock whimpered. “Why did you stop?”

“I need to make something clear. You are to remain completely still. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

John ran his palm down one of Sherlock’s arse cheeks before giving it a squeeze. “Can you do that, or do you need help?”

Sherlock swallowed. His head dropped between his shoulders, hanging like a loose rag. “Help.”

A shiver ran down John’s spine like a trickle of sweat. He couldn’t help picturing Sherlock trussed up, cuffs holding his hands behind his back, a spreader bar between his knees. But, that was something to work up to, assuming they’d have the time. Despite Sherlock’s enthusiasm and insistence that he knew what he was doing, he was still new just to the experience of sex, let alone the intricacies of BDSM. So, John needed something to limit Sherlock’s movements that would still leave Sherlock with enough control to make him comfortable. 

He knew just the thing.

John flipped a pillow so the short end lay against the headboard under Sherlock’s body. With his other hand, he weaved his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, pressing down just enough to make his intentions clear. Sherlock followed the silent instruction, laying his head on the pillow, face turned towards John.

“Lovely,” John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “Now reach behind you, and spread your cheeks.”

Sherlock’s face burned bright red. He swallowed, avoiding John’s gaze, but he did as he was asked.

Once Sherlock’s hands were in place, long fingers pulling the skin taut, John ran his palms down Sherlock’s shoulders, easing the tension he found there. “Okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “Please.” He swallowed again. “Please, Daddy.”

“What’s your safeword, love?”

“Potassium.”

John ran his palm down Sherlock’s back before leaving off to circle behind him. “Good lad. You’re doing brilliantly.”

Sherlock shuddered, pressing his face into the pillow, but the moment John’s fingers made contact with his thigh, he gasped, his head popping up like a meerkat’s before flopping back down. John let his fingers trail up Sherlock’s thighs. He tickled his adductors, watching the muscles jump under his touch. Sherlock trembled, sucking his breath in and out like a man just saved from drowning. It was gorgeous. Just the sight had John squeezing himself to take the edge off.

He leaned forward, his weight supported on his right arm, and breathed slow and hot over Sherlock’s cleft. “Does this turn you on, being like this?”

Sherlock nodded.

John sat back on his heels, the bed squeaking beneath him. “What?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good lad.” John rewarded him with a drag of tongue over his perineum, punctuated by a swirl over his hole. “Tell me why.”

Sherlock pressed his face to the pillow, groaning.

John laid his palms on Sherlock’s trembling thighs, rubbing soothing circles up and down. “Go on. You can do it.”

Sherlock turned his head, though he tucked it towards his shoulder. “It makes me…” He swallowed again, shifting his hips. “I’m vulnerable.”

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s coccyx, massaging his arse below Sherlock’s hands. “You like the loss of control.”

Sherlock paused, and his next word sounded as if he had to force it from his mouth. “Yes.”

John kissed lower and lower, a simple press of lips, until he reached Sherlock’s anus. There he laid an open-mouthed kiss, tongue pressing, swirling, flicking. He didn’t just lick; he snogged Sherlock’s arse, and the way Sherlock responded was incredible. John could feel Sherlock’s thighs tremble and shudder under his hands. His voice grew hoarse and reedy. His hands clenched tight into the muscles of his own arse.

John’s own cock throbbed between his thighs, and it was hard not to give into the urge he’d denied Sherlock. He wanted to press his hips to the bed and rut like a dog in heat. Instead, he kept himself busy exploring Sherlock’s body with his hands. His tongue dipped inside Sherlock, past the slackened, twitching muscle, as he kneaded Sherlock’s thighs, tickled behind his knees. He shifted forward, laving Sherlock from balls to spine, combing his fingers through the trail of hair on his stomach leading to his groin.

Sherlock shook underneath him, moaning into the pillow. John could hear the desperation even through the muffling, but it wasn’t enough. John wanted to hear every breath and whimper. He wanted Sherlock’s screams to ring in his ears. He wanted his neighbors to complain.

John jumped back to sit on his heels, curling his fingers over Sherlock’s nape. “None of that.” He pressed his fingertips to Sherlock’s jaw, urging him to turn his head. “Let me hear you.”

Sherlock lifted up a bit to turn his head, flopping back down with a breathy, “Yes, Daddy.”

John took a deep breath, oxygen rushing into his depleted bloodstream. He watched Sherlock work tension from his fingers, stretching them one at a time to keep his cheeks parted. So wonderfully obedient. John felt so proud, so powerful, so humbled to be so trusted.

John slipped his middle finger into his mouth, coating it with saliva before touching it to Sherlock’s hole, drawing a small, slow circle. “I’d like to tie you up.”

A shudder ran down Sherlock’s body all the way from his head to the tips of his toes, which curled up off the bed.

“Not today, but I couldn’t go another moment without telling you.” John pushed past Sherlock’s sphincter, teasing just inside.

Sherlock’s fingers clenched around his buttocks, stretching him even wider, and a rough, guttural breath punched from his lungs, roughly in the shape of John’s name.

This. This was the moment John sought. Sherlock was desperate, seeking John--only John--for satisfaction. Part of him wanted to acquiesce to Sherlock’s wants, fuck him hard and fast until they both rocketed to screaming orgasms. But, the larger part wanted to stretch this out, and not just for himself. If he were that selfish of a lover, they would have been done by now.

No, a mind like Sherlock’s must be hard to shut off. Did Sherlock find masturbation boring because he couldn’t get out of his head? Perhaps this time with John was the only time he could be truly relaxed, truly enjoy his body. If that were the case, John was determined to do all he could to give Sherlock as much as he could.

So, he pressed his finger in just a bit more, barely to the second knuckle, and drew the tip of his tongue over the rear of Sherlock’s rim. Sherlock breathed loudly through his nose, so deep and even that it had to be an effort to calm himself, to keep him from making all those beautiful noises.

John gave him a little pinch at the top of his thigh, just enough to startle. “Let go, love. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s just you and me.”

Sherlock whimpered, pressing his lips together, his face red as a fire truck.

John soothed the palm of his free hand down Sherlock’s back. “Shhh. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

Sherlock swallowed, relaxing a bit, but not entirely. “It’s so much.”

John pulled out his finger. “Are you overstimulated?”

“No,” Sherlock barked. “It’s just…” He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together. After a long moment, his breath gusted through his nose. “I don’t…”

John crawled up to the head of the bed to lay his head next to Sherlock’s. He twirled one damp curl around his finger. “It’s all right. Take your time.”

Sherlock took a few more breaths, lifting his face towards John’s touch, though the rest of him stayed as John put him. “I can’t control myself.”

“No one’s asking you to.”

“I can always control myself.”

John pressed his palm to Sherlock’s cheek. “I thought you wanted to lose control.”

“I do.” Sherlock’s head settled onto the pillow. “It’s more difficult than I thought.”

“Can you try something for me?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Instead of losing your control, give it to me. Can you do that?”

He nodded again. “I’ll try, Daddy.”

“Wonderful.” John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, running a thumb over his cheekbone before pulling away. “Do you want to try again?”

Sherlock shuffled in his position, bringing his knees closer to himself. “Yes, Daddy.”

When John was back in place, he was surprised to find Sherlock’s cock still hard, flushed dark, his balls drawn close to his body. A bead of precome clung to the tip, and when John ran his finger down Sherlock’s perineum, Sherlock hissed and his cock jumped, dropping the precome to the sheet.

John sealed his mouth over Sherlock’s skin, his arsehole a bullseye. He laved over it, letting himself drool on it, get Sherlock’s skin good and wet. Sherlock trembled, but his breath continued to be suspiciously even.

John pulled away with a peck, rubbing his palm over Sherlock’s inner thighs. “Let go. I’m here to catch you.”

With that, Sherlock’s mouth popped open on a nearly silent rush of air, and with John’s next touch, he let out a grunt.

“That’s better,” John said, cupping Sherlock’s bollocks. “You’re doing so well.”

“Joh--” Sherlock closed his eyes, his breath rushing in and out like a sprinter at the end of a race. 

John re-wet his finger, circling it over Sherlock’s hole before pressing in to the second knuckle, testing the give of Sherlock’s muscles. They were still relaxed, practically begging for John’s cock, and John let his finger be drawn in the rest of the way.

Finally, Sherlock let out a long moan, and it sounded like relief. John crooked his finger, stroking Sherlock’s prostate, and the muscles around him rippled as Sherlock’s cock twitched. John did it again, this time drawing circles with his fingertip. Sherlock’s toes curled, his body doing its best to draw towards his core, a wrecked moan echoing in the room.

“Good boy,” John said, eliciting another moan from Sherlock. He kept up his ministrations, leaning down to flick his tongue over Sherlock’s rim.

“Daddy,” Sherlock huffed, rocking into the touch the little bit that his position allowed. “Yes.”

John hummed against Sherlock’s skin, making him shudder. They were getting close. Sherlock was still a bit in his head; the moans were likely genuine, but they were also practiced. He was still trying to give John what he wanted without fully relinquishing control. But they had gotten there before. Sherlock was nothing but need that first night, with John inside him. His sounds and actions were involuntary, a consequence of riding the tide of his own body’s desires. They’d both enjoyed it. If not, why would Sherlock continue to return? But, how did they get back there? How did he prolong it?

John rubbed the flat of his tongue over the top of the arc where his finger disappeared into Sherlock’s body. Back and forth, back and forth, saliva dripping down Sherlock’s crack, John drew circles and figure eights on Sherlock’s prostate with the tip of his finger. He was doing better, giving in a bit more to the rush of his body. John had hoped to overwhelm Sherlock with sensation, give his mind too much to process, but he should have known that wouldn’t work. A mind like Sherlock’s could handle a lot. 

Still, his hips pulsed with every sweep of John’s fingers, a small exhalation to accompany it. The movement seemed unconscious, and if Sherlock had been a little less--or even a little more-- in his head, John would have made him stop. But Sherlock’s state was too tenuous, too on the edge. One move could bring Sherlock over the delicate precipice or send him tumbling away.

Though he stopped licking, John pulsed his finger slowly in and out of Sherlock’s hole, letting Sherlock tiny movements guide him, holding his mind and body at the edge. He took a deep breath. They could do this. They were so close. Sherlock’s body wanted to give way; John could feel it, but Sherlock’s mind held on. Just barely. Just that one thread to break.

Shuffling to Sherlock’s side, his fingers still inside, John combed the fingers of his free hand through Sherlock’s hair. He gave it a small tug, and Sherlock gasped, lifting his head, straining his shoulders to push into the touch.

“John,” he grunted, head butting John’s palm like a greedy cat.

“Shhh,” John soothed, running his fingertips over Sherlock’s scalp as he pressed it back to the pillow. “Rest your head. You’re doing so well.”

John shifted inside Sherlock until he could massage the perineum with his thumb, and Sherlock asked, “Am I?”

“Yes, love. Brilliantly.” He ran his palm down Sherlock’s spine, making Sherlock whimper. “You’re being so good for me.”

As John walked his fingers back up Sherlock’s spine to tangle in his hair, Sherlock’s breath came out in little, panting, “Ah”s. That was, until John’s fingertips touched scalp. It was like John had touched him with a live wire. He gasped as his hips jerked, and then a long groan eked out of him.

“Oh, that’s right,” John cooed. “I almost forgot. You like having your hair pulled”--he clenched his fist in Sherlock’s locks--”don’t you?”

And there it was. Sherlock’s mouth popped open on a long, loud moan, and his eyes slammed shut. John let go, soothing the abused follicles before sliding his fingers to another area. Gently, he closed his fist around unruly curls, but he didn’t pull. Not quite yet.

Instead, he watched. He watched as Sherlock panted, grunted, wriggled, and finally whined. Before the whine could come to full fruition, John yanked.

Sherlock’s head snapped back on a loud, “Daddy!”

John let go again before using the hair on Sherlock’s crown to guide his head back to position. “I think I found your off switch.”

“What?” Sherlock panted, but John didn’t answer. He just massaged Sherlock’s scalp, enjoying the moans and hums and gasps.

His hand skimming down Sherlock’s back, John crawled back into position behind him. Sherlock’s knuckles were white, gripping his buttocks like they were the only things holding him to the ground. His arms and shoulders were tense with it, throwing his muscles into sharp relief. It was mesmerizing.

John watched his finger slide in and out of Sherlock, his thumb over Sherlock’s perineum. He watched Sherlock’s bollocks twitch and sway with each tiny movement. His beautiful cock.

John’s mouth watered. He licked his lips. God, that cock. He had to taste it. So, wrapping his free hand over the top, he pulled it back to easy licking distance and swirled his tongue over this slit.

“Oh fuck,” Sherlock shouted, his body curling in until the crown of his head pressed against the pillow. “Oh God. John!”

John licked Sherlock like an ice lolly, savoring Sherlock’s varied and myriad noises. After a moment to admire his handiwork, he dove back in, rubbing his tongue over the spot where his finger disappeared into Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock grunted. He growled; he moaned, and it flowed from him like Niagara fucking Falls. John could have whooped and hollered if he weren’t so busy licking Sherlock to oblivion. He buzzed with arousal, with triumph, and it made him moan into Sherlock’s skin. It made him dip his head down below Sherlock’s hands and sink his teeth into Sherlock’s arse, right where it met Sherlock’s thigh.

“Fuck,” Sherlock groaned, pressing back against John’s mouth.

John popped up, stroking his right palm over the bite marks. “You like that, dirty boy?”

Sherlock nodded, his mouth wide and panting. He was probably drooling on the pillow. Fucking gorgeous.

John pulled his finger free of Sherlock’s arse to the tune of Sherlock’s whine only to shove two back in. “What?”

“Yes,” he huffed, body rocking with John’s thrusts. “Yes, Daddy. Yes!”

John’s heart was doing flips in his chest, his cock throbbing insistently between his legs, but he couldn’t care about either thing when his whole head was buzzing with Sherlock. When he couldn’t hear the rush of blood in his ears over the echoes of Sherlock’s voice. He wanted to watch Sherlock drowning in a sea of sexual pleasure until neither of them could take it any longer, and at this rate, Sherlock was sure to break before John did. He’d be happy to never come if he got to watch this.

He pulled his fingers from Sherlock’s body, wiping excess saliva on Sherlock’s inner thigh. “Flip over.”

Sherlock flopped onto his back before John could blink. His legs were still pulled up close to his body, knees spread as wide as his flexibility would allow, which was quite impressive to John’s estimation. His hair was a mess, his eyes wild. The cheek that had been pressed to the pillow was etched with red lines and wet with saliva, and Sherlock didn’t care at all. He shimmied down the bed until his arse met John’s thighs, groping for John’s hips with clumsy hands.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hands and eased them away, but he couldn’t do any more than that at the moment. He was too caught up in watching Sherlock, his desperate face, his squirming body, his flushed cock. He held Sherlock’s wrists aloft at arm’s length, just watching.

“Daddy,” Sherlock whinged, pulling towards the bed against John’s grip.

John let go, and Sherlock’s hands immediately grabbed the headboard, holding on for dear life.

“Beautiful,” John sighed.

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice John’s voice, instead arching his back to press his face towards the headboard. “Why did you stop?”

“Oh!” John blinked, shaking loose the cobwebs. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s knee. “I’m so sorry, love. I’ll take care of you.”

John shuffled up the bed to reach the drawer of the nightstand, and as he reached over, his cock bumped Sherlock’s. Sherlock hissed, hips kicking, and he wrapped his legs around John.

“Fuck,” John groaned, abandoning his quest to thrust against Sherlock. “That’s lovely.”

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, hands joining his legs to grip and push John’s arse. “Oh God.”

John covered Sherlock’s mouth with his own, licking at all those lovely sounds, and pried Sherlock’s hands off his arse to pin them by Sherlock’s head.

“Fuck me, Daddy,” Sherlock managed once John abandoned his mouth to explore his jaw and neck. “Please. I need it.”

“In a minute,” John said, letting go of Sherlock’s hands to skate his own down Sherlock’s side. “Grab the headboard.”

Sherlock’s hands flew up, landing on the headboard with a smack, and John continued his trek down Sherlock’s torso. He paused at Sherlock’s nipples, holding one between his teeth to flick his tongue against it, and Sherlock arched into the touch. John could feel Sherlock’s cock against his stomach, harder than steel and hotter than hell. He must be dying of arousal, desperate for relief, and John shivered with it. How long could he keep Sherlock like this?

He switched to the other nipple, rolling the abandoned one between his fingers as he went to work.

“Such sensitive nipples.” John sat up to rub them both with the heels of his hands. “I bet I could make you come with them.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head even as his body pressed itself against John’s hands. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard.”

“Are you sure?” John asked as his hand snaked its way down Sherlock’s torso. “There are so many ways I could make you come.”

“Please,” Sherlock sobbed, turning the word into three syllables. Perhaps it was time to have mercy.

John kissed Sherlock’s stomach. He reached for the bedside table again, but this time he managed to ignore Sherlock’s desperate thrusting against John’s groin. Well, not ignore, exactly. Each movement sent sparks up John’s spine, but he managed to grab the lube and back away nonetheless. He spread it on his two middle fingers and shoved them into Sherlock’s arsehole without preamble. Sherlock froze, eyes and mouth wide open.

“Too rough?” John stilled his fingers inside Sherlock, running his thumb up and down Sherlock’s perineum.

“No. More.” Sherlock pushed against the headboard, shoving himself against John’s hands, driving his fingers farther in, and John got the message. Oh, he got it good. John fingered fucked him hard and fast. He was relentless, making Sherlock howl. He was probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but it wasn’t enough. John wanted them banging on the walls. He wanted them to see Sherlock leaving and know who made such a beautiful man make such noise.

“That’s it.” John paused to dribble more lube on his fingers and shove in a third. “That’s perfect. Scream for me.”

Sherlock didn’t need prompting. The moment John’s third finger slid in, he shouted, “Yes, Daddy. Yes! Harder.”

John couldn’t wait any longer. He couldn’t imagine a better scenario. Sherlock was desperate, loud, wanton. He was a fucking mess of want. John could have asked Sherlock to add two and two, and he would have had no idea. He wanted Sherlock satisfied. He wanted him lethargic and buzzing, and he knew just how to give it to him.

He withdrew his fingers, but before Sherlock could climb the walls in his frustration, John was there. He guided the tip of his cock to Sherlock’s entrance, teasing over it as he dribbled lube over his cock.

“Oh, shit,” John said. “We used my last condom the other night.”

Sherlock’s heels pressed to John’s arse. “Do we really need it?”

Sherlock had a point. He was a virgin before John, and John hadn’t had sex in months before Sherlock. But, he had to know. “What about your experiment?”

“Fuck the experiment. I’m not nearly done with you.”

That was good enough for John. In fact, it made his heart swell, and as he pushed in with one long thrust, he couldn’t help leaning down to kiss Sherlock’s mouth--languid, wet, and sloppy. Sherlock was already trembling, hips twitching with the effort to stay still.

“John,” he groaned, gripping John’s arse. “Please.”

How could John deny him? He pulled nearly all the way out and thrust home. Sherlock grunted, his cock pulsing against John’s stomach, and John had to do it again. Sherlock’s face and voice and cock were too perfect not to be replicated. John tipped his hips back slowly, savoring the tight, wet glide of Sherlock’s body around him, and then snapped his hips forward. Sherlock’s body drove towards the headboard, his hips curling up with the impact.

“Oh, fuck,” he huffed, hands pushing against the headboard, pressing his hips tighter to John’s. _Beautiful._

John kept the same pace, savoring the slow ramp up of tension, the way Sherlock’s heels dug into his arse or hooked around his thighs, Sherlock’s fingers tight around the headboard. Even through Sherlock’s thick haze of lust, he followed John’s directions, and it was something to behold.

“You’re a fucking marvel,” John said, rolling his hips to hear Sherlock’s deep hum. “You like this, don’t you? Me fucking you good and slow, driving you crazy.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Sherlock panted. He drew his legs towards his chest, rocking his hips to push the head of John’s cock against his prostate.

John shivered as precome spurted from Sherlock’s cock. “I bet I could make you come like this. I wouldn’t even have to touch you, would I?”

Sherlock whimpered, still rocking his hips against John’s still form.

“Are you listening to me?”

“What?” Sherlock’s face contorted with the effort to keep his body under control, but even as he spoke, his hips pushed and rolled against John’s.

“I want to make you come just like this. Do you think you can come untouched?”

Sherlock shook his head, his body still writhing under John like a horned rattlesnake. “I don’t know.”

John grabbed the side of Sherlock’s arse, guiding him into a rhythm. “Can I try?”

“Oh, fuck.”

John rocked his hips in rhythm with Sherlock. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded frantically, shoving against the headboard. God, he passed desperate a long time ago.

John sat up, pushing Sherlock’s knees towards his chest. “Comfortable?”

Sherlock growled. “I don’t give a shit. Just fu--”

John cut him short with a snap of the hips, and then they were off to the races. Fuck, Sherlock felt so good, and the way he moved… _God._ There was no pretense to it. He wasn’t trying to look sexy. His hair was an absolute mess, his whole body tense with the effort to get the rhythm and angle just how he wanted it. He sobbed with the intensity of it, his neck arching to angles John might not have thought humanly possible. His cock was leaking, precome pooling in his navel, and it throbbed with every thrust.

If John thought Sherlock could have tolerated it, he would have taken another picture. As it was, he pushed harder and faster, watching Sherlock ramp up towards orgasm. The squeeze around his cock grew tighter and tighter. Sherlock’s balls drew up tight to his body.

“I don’t-- I don’t know if I can,” Sherlock sobbed.

John slowed down to a more reasonable pace, though still quick enough not to torture, and ran soothing hands down Sherlock’s sides. “Shhh. Relax. Don’t think about it. It doesn’t matter if you come like this.”

Sherlock swallowed, panting to catch his breath. “But I want to.”

John ran his hands down Sherlock’s sides once again before cupping his hips, massaging the hollows by Sherlock’s hip bones with his thumbs. “Don’t think about it.”

It took a moment, but soon Sherlock’s hips drifted out of the stratosphere, and his hands released their death grip on the headboard. He let his weight settle onto John as a long breath escaped.

“That’s it.” John curled his hand over the top side of Sherlock’s cock, just holding it still as he gathered wetness from the slit and spread it over Sherlock’s frenulum. “Let Daddy take care of you.”

Sherlock gasped. “What about--”

“Don’t think about it. Let me make you feel good.” He weaved his free hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes shut tight. “Yes, Daddy.”

John rocked against Sherlock, continuing his slick circles on Sherlock’s frenulum. Just that little bit of stimulation made all the difference. The tension dissipated from Sherlock’s face. He wasn’t desperately chasing orgasm anymore. He was enjoying the steady coiling tension in his gut, the inexorable glide towards climax. John could see it. He could feel it.

And, as he felt Sherlock’s cock swell in his hand, as he felt Sherlock’s muscles ripple around him, he said, “There we go. You’ve got it. Come for me.”

Sherlock spilled with a long groan of pure relief, his body shuddering like an unbalanced washing machine. John wanted to watch and enjoy, but Sherlock’s body wouldn’t have it. It milked the orgasm right out of John, making him hunch over Sherlock’s body, whispering praise into his skin.

They trembled through the aftershocks, and soon, Sherlock’s limbs fell akimbo. If it was possible to collapse when one is already lying down, Sherlock did it.

John slipped out of Sherlock’s body, eliciting a wince of protest.

“All right?” John asked.

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible.

“I’m going to grab you a flannel. Will you be awake when I get back?”

Sherlock mumbled again.

“English, please.”

A smile flickered at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Maybe.”

John chuckled. “I’ll take what I can get.”

When John returned, Sherlock wasn’t asleep, exactly. His eyelids drifted up and down as he curled on his side. His fingers floated from knee to arse and back again, and he sighed in contentment.

John shuffled onto the bed. “Roll onto your back.”

“Again? Already? Kudos, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock rolled onto his back, lazy hands lying by his face, his knees drifting apart.

John chuckled, swabbing Sherlock’s torso. “No. I need to clean you up.” John checked his work, and satisfied, he said, “Now on your tummy.”

Sherlock groaned, but he did it anyway. “Wash the dishes, Cinderelly. Do the mopping, Cinderelly.”

“Who’s mopping who now?”

“Whom.”

John parted Sherlock’s cheeks to wash between them. “Awfully verbal for someone who just got thoroughly fucked. I suppose I’ll just have to try harder next time.”

Sherlock hummed, hips tipping back against the flannel. “Please.”

John laid a light slap on Sherlock’s bum as he flung the flannel into the bathroom. “Cheeky.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

John crawled over Sherlock’s body to the other side of the bed before settling next to him. “No, I wouldn’t.”

As Sherlock curled towards him, John slipped his arm under Sherlock’s neck, skating his fingers up and down Sherlock’s spine. Their legs entwined, Sherlock dragged his lips up John’s jaw to his lips, capturing them in a sleepy, sloppy kiss.

“That was all right, though?” John asked. “It wasn’t too much?”

“No, it was perfect.” Sherlock nuzzled John’s cheek. “Daddy.”

John collapsed against the pillow with a sigh, thanking the ceiling for his good fortune. Sherlock rolled closer and draped himself over John. That did it. This was the perfect weekend.

_Buzz._

John’s head popped up, his brow furrowed. Did his pillow just vibrate?

Stuck in a confusion that could only be caused by a good orgasm, John groped under the pillow for the juddering offender. All the while, Sherlock grumbled.

“Leave it.” Sherlock grabbed at John’s hip to drag him closer.

“It could be a patient.”

Sherlock rolled over, huffing, “Tedious.”

“Yeah, well.” John’s hand finally closed around his mobile, and he hit the home key to light up the screen. A notification waited at the top of the screen, a text from Mary.

_**Really John? Is this what I’m supposed to wake up to on Sunday morning?** _

John’s face showed his confusion, but his gut showed his fear. It roiled, and his heart dropped into the box spring. With a shaking hand, he swiped to his text screen. There, just above the text, was a picture of Sherlock, arse presented, eye-fucking the camera over his shoulder.

“What the fuck?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to iamjohnlock4life for the beta.
> 
> Happy Smut Sunday!


	5. Chapter 5

_“What the fuck?”_

John could only blink at his phone and hope each time that when he next opened his eyes, he’d see something different. Because this was not happening.

It wasn’t happening.

Sherlock peered over his shoulder, squinting like the light in the room was too bright. “What is it?”

He didn’t know what to say. How the hell was he supposed to handle this? What was he going to tell Mary? What was he going to do with Sherlock?

“What have you done?” John croaked like a bullfrog with something stuck in its throat.

“Oh.” Sherlock rolled onto his back, pillowing his head in his hands. “Is she very angry?”

“Jesus,” John muttered before throwing aside the bedclothes. He couldn’t sit still through this. “Do you have any--”

John paced a small rectangle of carpet. He could feel the fibers of it digging into his heel with every military turn. He only caught glimpses of Sherlock in his periphery as he watched his own feet tread back and forth, but he didn’t need more than that to tell that Sherlock had finally gotten the thrust.

“Fuck!” John shouted, clenching the phone in his hands. His arm tensed, pulling back to gain the potential energy to truly smash the phone to pieces, but he stopped it. With a heavy gust through his nose, he set the phone precisely at the corner of the bed.

“John--”

“Don’t.” John pressed the side of his index finger to his lips. His jaw clenched as he cocked his head. “Just… don’t. Not right now.”

“You seemed keen--”

A laugh burst from John’s mouth. “Seriously, Sherlock?” He held out a halting hand. “Stop. You’ve put me in a very awkward situation, here, and you just need to shut up while I figure it out.”

“She’ll get over--”

“Stop it,” John shouted, his body tensed for a leap, but instead, he stepped back on his heel, spun on it, and resumed his path along the carpet. He still didn’t know what he was going to do or say. All that were coming to mind were invectives, and if it were anyone else in any other situation, he would have been spewing all of them.

John rubbed his fingers over his chin. “You’ve put me in an awkward position here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s body emitted tension like a fucking nuclear reactor. “So you’ve said.”

“You don’t understand. You didn’t--” John swallowed, took a deep breath to force his voice into an even timbre. “You didn’t just put me in hot water with my ex-wife. That’s not the prob-- Well, it’s not most of the problem. I don’t give a shit what she thinks of me, understand?”

Sherlock nodded.

John picked up the phone, shaking it at Sherlock. “This was a giant violation, Sherlock, and I can’t--” John stopped, took a breath, set down the phone. “I can’t even properly argue with you about it.”

“Why not?”

John pivoted away, pivoted back. “Because you’re going to drop.”

Sherlock’s brows rippled in confusion. “Drop?”

“Sub drop.”

The confusion on Sherlock’s face didn’t dissipate.

“Jesus,” John huffed, a mirthless laugh bubbling up. “I thought you did research on this. What did you call it? Due diligence?”

Sherlock stared into the middle distance for a moment before realization dawned with an, “Oh! I saw that term. I didn’t see myself at much risk of it.”

“Fucking God.” John’s leg suddenly felt stiff, and he hobbled over to the bed before collapsing. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers combing through his hair.

“It hasn’t happened before.”

“I haven’t pushed you as hard before.” John peered over his shoulder. “Look at you. You’re shaking already.”

John reached out to wrap his fingers over Sherlock’s wrist, but Sherlock batted it away, saying, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

Sherlock’s head spun towards John; the look on his face turned feral. “I said, I’m fine!”

John’s head drooped, but he flipped over onto his knees to shuffle closer to Sherlock, muttering, “You’re going to make this hard for me as well, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes. It’s all about you, isn’t it? All about how this”--Sherlock gestured to himself--”affects you. I was only doing what I thought you wanted.”

“You don’t--” John cut off the shout with a clack of teeth. He took a breath. “It’s not the time for that. Just let me help.”

John laid his palm over Sherlock’s back, rubbing soothing circles, but Sherlock bit out, “I don’t need your help.” His eyes reddened. “Stop coddling me.”

“It’s just hormones. It’ll pass.”

Sherlock swiped at his cheek. “I’m not menstruating, John.”

John wrapped his arm over Sherlock’s shoulder to pull him closer, and while he didn’t acquiesce, he also didn’t push John away. John huffed, scooting up the bed to sit next to Sherlock. His head dipping, John pinched the bridge of his nose. God, he was so pissed, but he couldn’t fight with Sherlock like this.

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, growling out his frustration. “Why won’t it stop?”

“It’s a natural response. It’s been an intense morning.” John stared at his phone. Every moment that passed without responding to Mary just amped up his anxiety, and he found himself squeezing tighter on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock sobbed and finally leaned into John, laying his forehead on John’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

John ran his free hand through Sherlock’s hair before settling it on the back of Sherlock’s neck. Placing his tense chin on the top of Sherlock’s head, he said, “Don’t say that until you feel better.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry.” Sherlock clung to John, and hot tears hit John’s shoulder, dripping down his chest.

John shushed him. He wondered if Sherlock could feel his frown on the top of his head, if the tension in his body was giving him away. Not that it wasn’t obvious he was angry, but he needed Sherlock to come out of the crash as well as possible, and for that, Sherlock needed to feel supported.

Still, he couldn’t give Sherlock the thing he was pleading for, forgiveness.

John’s phone buzzed, and he closed his eyes, slowly breathing out his sudden resurging fury like a dragon with smoke curling from its nostrils. A new text could only mean that Mary’s ire was on the rise, and she was unpredictable when angry. Who knew what she might do with the picture? There were too many possibilities to contemplate without exploding at either Sherlock or Mary, or both, or perhaps just jumping out the window. That was looking like a better option with every passing minute.

With a sigh, John let go of Sherlock to reach for the phone, but before he could get there, Sherlock grabbed onto him, pressing his lips to John’s neck, tonguing sloppily along his carotid.

John froze, swallowed. “Sherlock.”

“Please.” Sherlock tugged at John’s waist, nosing at his jaw. “Kiss me.”

“This is not the time, Sherlock.”

“Please, Daddy.” Sherlock did his best to curl around John, encircling John with his arms, blindly seeking John’s lips. “I need you.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s hands behind his back to pry them loose. “You can’t smooth this over with sex Sherlock.”

As John eased out of his grip, Sherlock drooped. His jaw dropped; his eyes welled, but then he huffed. He tossed himself to the head of the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard, knees up with his elbows propped on them. He looked like a prickly cactus, angry pout only amplified by his red, swollen eyes.

“Look,” John said, picking up his phone. “Maybe that was a bad idea. Maybe you should be alone for a little bit.”

“Fine.”

John woke up his phone. Mary’s text read simply, _**Well?**_ “Do you want to borrow some pyjamas?”

“I’m fine.”

As he walked to the dresser, John swiped to the text, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He still didn’t know what to say, so with a glottal growl, he tossed the phone on the top of the dresser to get out a pair of pants and a t-shirt. Once in them, he retrieved the phone, gesturing with it towards Sherlock.

“I’m going to go take care of this. You’ll be here when I get back?”

Sherlock sniffed, turning his nose in the air as he faced away from John. “Fine.”

John laughed without mirth at the absurdity of it all, at the constant repetition of fine. It was getting really hard to remember that Sherlock was in an emotionally compromised state when he was reflecting all that anger at him. “All right. Fine.”

“Fine,” Sherlock repeated as John walked into the hall.

“Oh my God,” John muttered to himself. “For fuck’s sake, it’s like arguing with a teenager.”

As he walked into his study and closed the door, he laughed again. God, he was going hysterical. 

“I am arguing with a teenager.” What a way to get slapped with their age difference. Sherlock’s big brain made him seem older, like he had life figured out, and it was easy to forget just how young he was. But there it was like a cold, dead fish to the face. Sherlock was a fucking teenager.

Was this all a terrible idea? Was Sherlock really mature enough to handle a relationship, if that was even what they had? Could he even handle what John had put him through in the bedroom?

John deflated. _Oh, God._

“One fire at a time, Watson.” John puffed his cheeks as he pushed tension from his lungs and tapped Mary’s name from his contact list.

“What?” came Mary’s voice. Oh, this was going to be bad.

“Hi, Mary.”

“Oh. ‘Hi, Mary,’ is it? What was that, John? Why are you sending me porn?”

“It’s not--”

“What did you even search to find that? Barely legal teen can’t wait for a big dick?”

John slumped into his chair. “Well, that’s not entirely off the-- Never mind.” 

He swiped his hand over his face. What the fuck was he supposed to say?

Mary’s breath sounded in the earpiece like an ill wind. “I’m sure there’s an explanation forthcoming, or you wouldn’t have called.”

“That… shouldn’t have gone to you.”

“Not to sound trite, but, duh.”

“Look, I’m-- I’m seeing someone.”

Mary trilled. “Oh my God. This is your boyfriend, is it? Where’d you find him, John? The playground? Did you offer him candy?”

John sat up like an iron rod had just been shoved up his spine, his fist clenching around the phone. “Come on, Mary. How dare you? Even from you--”

“You follow your dick to the youngest bit of tail you can find, and how dare I?”

“What business is it of yours? We’re divorced!”

Mary scoffed. “Barely.”

“Oh yes, and I suppose you’re just a little bit pregnant.”

He could hear Mary’s jaw clack shut at that one.

“How is David, by the way? You two settling in all right?” John spat.

John heard a series of thumps behind him, and he cocked his head towards the shared wall between the study and bedroom. What was he doing in there?

“You utter bastard,” Mary snarled. “As if you were such a saint.”

“I didn’t fuck anyone else.”

“Maybe not, but--”

John vaulted out of his chair. “Maybe not? Jesus, Mary, I did not cheat on you. When will you get that through your head?”

“Oh, yes.” She barked a laugh. “All those late nights were just work.”

“Yes!” John shouted.

“Lie all you want, John. We both know the truth.”

“What reason do I have to lie? God”--John thumped his clenched fist against his thigh, voice going quiet--”I wish I had just so I wouldn’t have to have this conversation for the hundredth bloody time.”

“All that flirting, John.” She sounded like a mother scolding a child. “And I’m supposed to believe--”

“Just delete the picture, all right?” John jumped at a particularly loud thud behind him. “Then we can go back to not talking to each other, just like everyone wants.”

“We’ll see.”

With that, the line was dead. _Shit._

John growled, and the thuds that interrupted his phone conversation were replaced by silence. Time to face the music, apparently. All this adrenaline was making him tired.

John padded down the hall, careful not to disturb whatever fragile peace there was. When John arrived to the bedroom door, Sherlock was staring at him. No, not at him exactly. He was staring at the space John occupied, fingers pressed together under his chin. He’d put his pants back on, and apparently all the thudding that John had heard was Sherlock looking for a dressing gown, that he hadn’t bothered to tie.

Looking at him like that--fresh face, lithe body, stiff posture--John was reminded just how young he was. “Are we calm now?”

Sherlock took a sudden breath through his nostrils. “Fine. Yes. Calm.” He wrapped the gown around himself and sat on the bed. “How did it go with Mary?”

John shrugged. There was no way Sherlock hadn’t heard him shouting through the wall. “We’ll see.”

“I _am_ sorry, John.” Sherlock looked at his lap, tugging at the static cling of the dressing gown.

“I know.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair. “But I don’t know if you’re forgiven. I don’t even know how much is your fault or my fault.”

Sherlock’s head popped up, the skin above his nose wrinkling as his brows rippled. “What? Your fault?”

Where did he even start? “I forgot how young and inexperienced you are. I should have been more careful.”

Sherlock pulled up his chin, back ramrod straight, shoulders back. “I can handle myself.”

“I think this”--John wiggled the phone at arm’s length--”proves that’s not true.”

Sherlock scoffed, but he didn’t offer a counterargument.

“I’m really pissed at you.”

“So I gathered.”

“Will you look at me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock slowly rotated his head until their eyes could meet. With a shrug, he asked, “What?”

“This isn’t something you do without consulting me.”

Sherlock flinched. “Consulting you? So, you might have let me do it if I asked.”

“Not likely. But, I have to admit, I do find the prospect of making Mary jealous exciting.”

“Well, that was certainly self-evident yester--”

“Not the time, Sherlock.” John stretched his fingers to work the tension from his hand. “The point is there are much better ways to go about it.”

Sherlock perked up like a puppy expecting to go outside. “Such as?”

“Literally anything else. You violated my trust and put us both at risk. If the mood strikes her right, Mary will send that picture to everyone she knows.”

The color drained from Sherlock’s face.

“See? There we go.”

Sherlock hopped off the bed and rushed past John into the sitting room.

John followed to find Sherlock rifling through his own trouser pockets. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock pulled out his phone. “She can’t distribute that picture. I can make a phone call and have her phone wiped.”

“What? How can you--” John boggled, sputtering, until Sherlock unlocked his phone. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

John felt like his head was going to explode. “You can’t fix this by hacking Mary’s phone.”

“It seems the perfect solution to me. She can’t send the photo if she doesn’t have it.”

“How do you even know someone who--” John spun away, wearing out another rectangle of carpet. “I’m going about this the wrong way.”

“Good, so you’ve come to my way of thinking.”

“No.” John rushed over, clasping his hand over Sherlock’s mobile. “Up until a few minutes ago, this weekend was brilliant, but this has made it abundantly clear that two days of sex haze has really fucked up my judgement.”

Sherlock studied John’s face, and as his eyes went wide with comprehension, he tugged his phone from John’s grasp. “You want me to leave.”

John chewed his bottom lip, staring at a nick in a table leg to his left. “Yes.”

“Very well.” Sherlock gave a curt nod. “I’ll just go get dressed, shall I?”

“All right.”

Sherlock followed the breadcrumbs of his clothes back to the bedroom, and John waited, unmoving from his spot.

After a couple minutes, Sherlock came swooping back into view. He flipped up his coat collar and buttoned it as he stared at John, his face impassive. He held out a hand, making John wince.

“What are you--”

“Thank you for participating in this study, Doctor Watson. Your input has been invaluable.”

“That’s not--” John stepped back, his brows so knit that he could have made a jumper. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock tilted his head like a detached spectator. “Is this not what you wanted?”

“Is it what you want?”

Sherlock shrugged, staring over John’s head.

“All right.” John threw up his hands. “When you make up your mind, you let me know. Laters.”

Sherlock took a step back, fading towards the door, but he stopped with his fingers on the knob. His lips pressed together. “It’s not.”

“What?”

Sherlock kept his back to John, fingers fiddling with the knob. “It’s not what I want.”

With that, Sherlock opened the door, ready to disappear through it.

“Sherlock?” John said.

Sherlock paused in the door.

“Just. Don’t resume your experiment until you hear from me, all right?”

Sherlock nodded and closed the door behind him.

John collapsed to the couch, parasympathetic nervous system wreaking havoc. He had a lot to think about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was miserable.

Not because he hadn’t seen John in five days. No, he wasn’t that kind of man.

Or, at least it wasn’t because he missed John. He liked John, certainly. John was confident and capable and interesting. And yes, he was an attractive man. And yes, Sherlock’s body had experienced sensations with John that it hadn’t before, but that was bound to have been true with any partner that Sherlock chose for his first sexual experience. It was nothing about John in particular.

No, it was simply a three-day marathon of sex that got Sherlock’s body accustomed to a certain… frequency of orgasms. And it was simply a schedule that was not sustainable. And if he so happened to masturbate three times yesterday, well, that was just an anomaly. Even if it was the second day he’d done that since leaving John’s flat on Sunday. Even if he had bought three different dildoes of approximately John’s length and girth only to be disappointed by all of them.

Even if coming to work on Friday afternoon after implementing a ban on wanking Thursday night left him tetchy and horny and gave him intrusive thoughts about falling to his knees and swallowing a big cock while blunt, calloused fingers tugged at his hair. Even if the restaurant manager had already snapped at him twice to get his act together before the dinner rush even began.

Plus, he’d begun his experiment only to have it bluntly cut off when he agreed not to sleep with anyone else until John contacted him. Why had he agreed to it? He didn’t owe John anything, and now he was missing days of data. How was he to know what represented a long term desire and what he only enjoyed due to novelty without more data? John had deprived him of vital information.

So, when John waltzed into the restaurant and dropped a key in Sherlock’s pocket, Sherlock was livid. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. When John dropped the key, peered at Sherlock through his eyelashes, and raised his eyebrows in question, Sherlock just nodded. Like an idiot. It wasn’t until John was out the door that he thought to be livid. And if the key burned into the skin of his thigh and his skin tingled and his penis got a bit extra circulation, those were all just side effects of his anger.

And John was going to hear about it.

***

Sherlock didn’t bother with the lift in John’s building. He just sprinted up the six flights of stairs, so the heaving breaths were more than just the anger fueling his flight. He raised his fist, ready to bang on the door hard enough to rattle it in its frame, but he paused. How could he forget? He had a key. He didn’t have to wait for John. Not anymore.

He scraped the key into the lock. Who gave a fuck if he scratched it?

He barged in and slammed the door behind him. No John.

“John!” he bellowed--fuck the neighbors--and stomped his way to the hallway.

The door to John’s office flew open, and he darted out. He looked happy. Why did he look happy? Sherlock was here to tell him off.

“You’re here,” John said.

“What,” Sherlock panted, holding up the offending key, “is this supp--”

John’s lips smashed into Sherlock’s, tongue pushing past Sherlock’s aborted words. God, he felt good. Sherlock dropped the key, the tinkling clatter muffled by the blood rushing through his ears, and yanked John to him.

Wait. No. He was angry.

His hands flew to John’s shoulders, ready to shove, his palms on John’s clavicles. He was angry. He gathered the cotton of John’s plain white t-shirt in both fists, the seams creaking under the pressure. John’s stubble scratched against Sherlock’s chin, lips smearing, so rough that it was starting to hurt, and it lit Sherlock’s nerves on fire. _I’m angry. I’m here to tell John off._

John’s hands slipped underneath Sherlock’s coat, slid over his waist and hips, reached behind, cupped, and _squeezed._ Fingers digging into Sherlock’s perineum, palms pressing his cheeks apart, allowed ingress of the fabric of his pants, tickled at his hole.

He was angry, but fuck anger. John needed to fuck Sherlock. Right now.

With something between a groan and a growl, fists still tight around his shirt, Sherlock pushed John towards the bedroom. Their bodies stumbled apart, and Sherlock ripped the shirt over John’s head, making his hair stand on end.

Sherlock took in John’s body, strong and compact and familiar and exciting, the blondish hair peeking out from above his belt, the heaving chest, the wild eyes.

“God, yes,” John growled, smashing them together once again, shoving Sherlock’s coat off his shoulders, and Sherlock fell to his knees. He hadn’t planned to. His body was still screaming for John to fuck him, to fuck him hard and pull his hair and mark his body, but it was like he lost the ability to stand. His mouth watered for John as much as his groin ached.

He rubbed his mouth over John’s lower stomach as he tugged and tugged at John’s pyjama bottoms, stymied as to why they wouldn't budge. He just needed them down. He needed John naked. He needed bare the hot erection currently prodding at his neck through too much cloth, and he whined. Finally, his dumb fingers found the ends of a drawstring and pulled them loose, and it felt like relief. He sighed and shimmied pajamas and pants down John’s hips.

His erection was gorgeous, dark and thick and shining at the slit, a drop of precome just begging to be licked away. So Sherlock did, moaning at the taste for just a moment before diving in, pressing his nose to John’s abdomen, exploring the underside of John’s cock with his tongue, salt and sex and musk. He stayed there with John’s cock throbbing in his throat, with John’s hands gripping his shoulders, until he grew lightheaded. Only then did he pull back, sucking in a deep breath through his nose, ready to sink down again until John’s fingers in his hair stilled him.

“Gorgeous,” John sighed, rocking ever so slightly in and out of Sherlock's mouth, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it. “Oh God, you’re brilliant.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush, his body suffuse with warmth, a tingle rise on his scalp and trickle down his neck. He let his head fall into John’s hand. His whole body was relaxed, given over to John to use as he pleased. All the stress of the week floated away like the seeds of a dandelion.

John’s rocking gained purpose. “Look at you. You needed this, didn't you?”

Sherlock moaned what he hoped would be interpreted as the affirmative.

“Yeah.” Just that word, spoken barely above a whisper, made goosebumps rise all over Sherlock's body, made his toes curl, made him feel cherished. “Gonna fuck that beautiful mouth. Would you like that?”

Sherlock nodded as enthusiastically as he could manage with a throat full of cock, humming his assent. _Do it. Fuck my throat raw._

John’s fist tightened in Sherlock's hair, holding him still, making him moan. All consuming was the sting in Sherlock's scalp, the warmth and pressure and taste of John in his mouth. He rocked in and out, nice and easy, so that Sherlock could simply revel in it. True, he had thought he wanted it hard and fast, but this was better. This allowed him to savor the experience, feel the gentle ebb and flow of cells alternately deprived and flooded with oxygen.

“So good for me,” John sighed. “My beautiful boy.”

Sherlock grabbed onto John’s thighs, eyelids fluttering in response to the words. _Yes, daddy, tell me how good I am._

“God, I missed you.”

 _I missed you, too._ Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, annoyed at the unbidden thought. He felt the sudden urge to pull away, demand to be treated as an equal and not as a toy to be thrown away the moment it stops being fun.

Where did that come from? It was his idea to embark on the experiment, his idea to continue only as long as they both found it beneficial. Why should he be bothered that John considered taking him up on it?

John’s cock slid from Sherlock's mouth.

“Hey.” John dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock. “All right?”

Sherlock swallowed, looking everywhere but John. “I… I don't know what to say.”

John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, running his nails over Sherlock’s scalp, slowing Sherlock’s thoughts to treacle. “It’s all right. Subspace can make it hard to think, and you fell in so quickly.”

Sherlock leaned into John’s hands, soaking up the tender touch like dry soil. He fought the urge to say it, pressing his lips together until his teeth threatened to draw blood, squeezing his eyelids shut until he saw stars. But in the end, John’s hands in Sherlock’s hair and on his face, his lips on Sherlock’s, his body so close Sherlock could feel it like a vibration, forced the words from his mouth.

“I missed you.” Sherlock collapsed his forehead to John’s shoulder. “It was awful.”

Oh God, he said it. He admitted to this hateful weakness. He wanted to curl into himself, grow invisible so John couldn’t see him so weak and pathetic. How could he have been so stupid? How could he allow himself to sacrifice his scientific distance? He’d simply wanted to run an experiment, but he had to go and catch feelings.

And of course, John had to go and misinterpret the whole thing, scrubbing his hands through Sherlock’s hair and holding him close, kissing him below the ear. “I’m sorry. I handled that so badly.”

Sherlock shook his head against John’s neck, unable to resist the urge to wrap his arms around John’s back. “Yes, you did.”

“Smart arse.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched against John’s skin. He pulled John closer. “Yes, it is..”

Sighing, John skated his hands down Sherlock’s back to the swell of his arse. “I’m glad you brought it.” He gave it a good squeeze. “I love this smart arse.”

Sherlock pressed back against John’s hands. God damn his ability to work Sherlock's body like a surgical scalpel. Merely hands on his arse, pressing and squeezing just so, had Sherlock raring to go once more. Had him just shy of begging for more. Had him rocking against John’s hands in silent entreaty to slide his fingers a little farther down, a little more towards the middle.

He could already picture himself on his hands and knees, John’s fingers buried inside him, working him into a frenzy. He could remember the feeling of John’s cock so clearly that his own cock throbbed. But more importantly, he remembered what it was like to wait for it, how desperate he became, how all thoughts outside the pleasure in his body disappeared. He remembered the look on his face in John’s picture, sexy and wanton, unlike anything he’d thought possible for himself.

Sherlock jolted upright with a sharp inhale. “What about the photo?”

“I convinced Mary to delete it.” John scratched at the back of his own head. “Though that didn't stop her from telling people all about it.”

Sherlock shocked himself with the spike of guilt that stabbed through him. “Right. Sorry.”

John shook his head. “It’s okay. It’s not the way I would have liked people to find out, but… it’s fine.”

Sherlock nodded, peering down John’s body, lamenting the wilted erection.

“Besides.” John worked open the top button of Sherlock's shirt. “They’re all jealous.”

Sherlock’s brow crinkled as he looked up to John's face. “What?”

Humming, John pulled the tails of Sherlock's shirt from his trousers. “Boring heart surgeon pulls pretty young thing who’s into kinky sex? Who wouldn't be jealous?”

Sherlock rolled his shoulders to help John push off his shirt. “So my faux pas worked out for the best.”

John chuckled, unbuckling Sherlock's belt. “Yes.” He paused, gaze dangerous in Sherlock's eyes, and he whipped Sherlock's belt from its loops with a loud snap. “But don't do it again.”

Sherlock's heart kicked into top gear, and his, “Yes, daddy,” came out almost giddy.

“Good.” John stood, his wilted erection pulsing back to life, belt hanging from one hand. He smirked. “Bedroom. Naked.”

Sherlock scrambled to his feet. Barely was he there before he was popping open the button, pulling apart the zip. He dropped the whole works just inside the bedroom door and had to walk like a penguin for a few steps before he managed to get out of his shoes and step out of trousers and pants. The socks were easy after that, though he did have to hop once or twice.

John tutted, and Sherlock spun to find him leaning against the doorframe, Sherlock’s belt still hanging from his hand, skimming the floor. The fact that he was naked did not detract from the exhilarating intimidation one bit. “Look at this mess.”

Sherlock nudged his big toe against one errant sock. “What are you going to do about it?”

John brought the hand with the belt up to his other, slotting it between two fingers and dragging it through, stretching the belt in front of his torso. God, that was thrilling, the slow, steady consideration of all the ways John could take him apart, and Sherlock’s heart raced at every prospect.

John’s tongue dragged across his bottom lip before pulling in one corner of it. “I don’t know.”

Sherlock imagined the belt slicing through the air and striking his backside. If the pain were anything like as exquisite as the few bites and finger marks left on Sherlock’s body, he’d revel in it. He ached to try, though he couldn’t quite stop his fingers or voice from shaking when he asked, “Do you want to whip me with that?”

John raised his eyebrows. “Would you like that?”

Sherlock shrugged, though the nonchalance of the gesture didn’t seem to translate. “I think I might.”

“No.” John folded the belt and snapped the halves together, making Sherlock jump (damn transport). “I don’t think you’re ready for that. But”--John crossed until he stood directly in front of Sherlock, close enough that Sherlock found himself swaying into John’s gravity--”give me your hands.”

Sherlock offered them up, and once John had twisted them so the wrists faced each other, he wove the belt over and under them, threading it in and out of the buckle until it resembled a pair of handcuffs on a short leash. And then he cinched them tight enough that Sherlock had to stumble forward. Sherlock’s wrists trapped, John pulled him into a kiss. It wasn’t anything like as frantic as when Sherlock arrived, but it was all the more thrilling for it. John held the end of the belt behind his back, forcing Sherlock into a lopsided hunch, and with his free hand, he grabbed Sherlock’s hair, yanking Sherlock’s ear to his mouth as he broke the bruising kiss.

Sherlock panted as John murmured against his ear, vibrations of his voice traveling straight to Sherlock’s cock. God, it ached. Here he was, stooped, confined, manhandled, and he thrilled to it. Why hadn’t John done this from the beginning?

Sherlock jumped at a sharp smack against his arse.

“Aren’t you going to answer my question?” John murmured, voice calm, dangerous. Oh, that was incredible.

Sherlock simply groaned, hips rolling, cock seeking friction like a dowsing rod.

John’s fist tightened in his hair. _Fuck._ “That’s not an answer.”

“What…” Sherlock’s hands opened and closed in their futile attempt to get a grip on something. He felt like he was falling. “What was the question?”

“Have you been a bad boy?”

“Yes!” Adrenaline shot through Sherlock, making his skin buzz. “Yes, daddy.”

“Do you need to be punished?”

Sherlock sucked at the skin of John’s neck, just so he could attach some part of his body to John’s. God, he wanted to get his hands on John. He almost wished John was still clothed just so Sherlock had something to grab onto, something to tether him. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. He could only feel, and it was frightening, thrilling. He’d had glimpses of this in their last encounter, the feeling of being outside and yet more seated in his body than he’d ever been, his sparse thoughts focused only on what John was doing to him, unaware and out of control of what the parts of his body were doing that weren’t being touched by John.

But this was something else entirely. He had to see how far it went.

He let John take most of his weight, groaning, “Please.”

John guided Sherlock down to his knees and without another word, simply walked towards the bed. It confused Sherlock for a moment until he felt the belt tug at his wrists. Oh! It was a leash.

Sherlock moved to stand, but John tutted, “On your knees, Sherlock.”

Eyes locked on John’s, Sherlock lowered himself back to his knees and shuffled across the carpet. It was plush and soft for carpeting, but it still wasn’t made for the comparatively thin and delicate skin of knees and shins and tops of toes. He could feel his skin grow redder with every drag, and it only made his cock impossibly harder. It only made him want to worship John for doing this to him, and with a quick scuttle, he was right there, nuzzling against John’s hip as he walked, chasing after it with every new footfall.

Far too soon, John stopped, giving two sharp tugs to Sherlock’s belt. “On the bed, now. On your back.”

With one last smear of his mouth against John’s thigh, Sherlock complied, climbing up on elbows and knees and then flopping gracelessly onto his back.

John chuckled as he pulled Sherlock’s arms over his head, looping the free end of the belt through the headboard. “Your form could use some work.”

Sherlock arched his back to watch John fasten the end of the belt to the buckle, wedging the prong against the leather already woven through it. _Oh God._ “I’ll practice.”

“Not without me, you won’t.”

“Yes, daddy.” Sherlock’s hips rose off the bed as that perfect blend of promise and threat washed over him like the tide..

“Good lad.” Satisfied that the belt was fastened the way he wanted, John skated his fingers down Sherlock’s arms and stood. “What’s your safeword, love?”

“Potassium.” God, Sherlock was trembling watching John amble to the end of the bed and crawl between Sherlock’s legs. What did John have in store for him? The suspense was killing him. He never wanted it to end.

A whine escaped his throat, hips wriggling and hands gripping the leather of his belt, as John settled back on his heels between Sherlock’s thighs. Calmly, he grabbed Sherlock’s hips and guided them down until they rested on John’s thighs. Their cocks nearly touched. Nearly. All Sherlock had to do was stretch his arms, maybe shimmy a bit.

The grip on Sherlock’s hips hardened. “None of that.”

The air punched from Sherlock’s lungs, and he managed to let his arse rest on John’s legs, so close and so far from John’s gorgeous cock. Though he did lift his head enough to get a look, to wish their cocks together, to wish John’s hands on him.

He got half of the wish as John’s palms stroked up Sherlock’s abdomen. “Head on the pillow. Relax.”

Sherlock let his head hit the pillow, blowing a long breath through his mouth, forcing his arms and shoulders into relaxation.

John nudged at Sherlock’s knees bracketing John’s chest. “And your legs. Just let them fall open.”

Sherlock had to let out another long exhale at that. It made him feel like a hedgehog showing its belly, putting away his spikes and making himself vulnerable. He wanted to pull his knees to his chest or at least wrap himself in persona, make some sexy smartass comment, but he fought the urge. He so loved the blurry sluggishness of his thoughts from just a few moments ago, when a bit of pain and humiliation set him on fire. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, willing it back.

Fingers wended their way behind Sherlock’s head, pulling tight as others closed, unforgiving, around his cock.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open on a gasp. John’s fist, too dry, too much, wanked Sherlock, leaving Sherlock’s hips restless, torn between pushing into and pulling away from John’s touch.

“Hips still,” John shouted, and Sherlock stopped. He couldn’t call what his arse was doing resting, but it stayed still on John’s thighs, clenched tight. “That’s good. Stay with me.”

Sherlock’s back arched with the effort to keep his hips still, shifting his hair in John’s grip. It pinched. It was too much. It was perfect. It was relief. _Yes, John. Yes. Fuck._ _Harder._ It was all consuming, pain and pleasure coursing through him with such intensity that he’d be unaware of a nuclear bomb.

So when John closed his teeth over Sherlock’s nipple and sucked and _tugged_ , Sherlock howled. And just like that, he couldn’t hold back.

“John, I… I’m gonna-- Please. Make me come. Make me come.”

John dragged his incisors over Sherlock’s nipple. “You want to come, do you?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. Nodded.

And just like that, John’s hands were gone. “You’ll come when I say.”

Sherlock whimpered, stuttering hips skidding his cock against John’s abdomen. Just enough stimulation to be infuriating. Just enough movement for John to press the heels of his hands to the hollows of Sherlock's hips and shift his weight onto them.

No matter how Sherlock struggled, and no matter how out of control of the struggle he was, he couldn't budge the anchors keeping him down. He was strung between wrists and hips, two nodes on the restless wave of his body. Meanwhile, John was silent, waiting. How patient he was, Sherlock couldn't tell through the blinding need to come. He doubted John could have brought him any closer to the edge without spilling him over.

Finally, the sharp edge subsided, and Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath, letting it out as the small of his back sank to the sheets.

“Good lad,” John cooed, making Sherlock’s toes curl. He slipped his hands up Sherlock's sides, thumbs grazing nipples, fingers skimming underarms, making Sherlock flinch. He tensed, afraid John would tickle him, but those hands just continued their trek on up Sherlock's arms to his wrists. Fingers--no, thumbs--eased their way between Sherlock's wrists and the belt, sliding over the delicate skin of his pulse point.

“These still feel all right?” 

Ah, checking to see if Sherlock injured himself. Sherlock shivered, opening his eyes to deep blue ones mere inches away. He bit his lip, nodded. True, he could feel some chafing, just a bit of a burn towards his thumbs, but it was brilliant. He felt treasured. He wanted to stay this way as long as possible.

John dipped to kiss him, hands curling over Sherlock’s with his thumbs still tucked under the belt. Tingles crawled down Sherlock’s arms from John’s thumbs to the place where his chest pressed against Sherlock’s. His tongue was gentle, thorough, and Sherlock felt covered, enveloped, safe.

“I’m going to fuck you,” John said, weaving one hand into the hair at Sherlock’s crown. “I’m going to massage your prostate until you can’t see straight, and then I’m going to fuck you. And if you’re good for me, I might even let you come. Would you like that?”

Sherlock could only whimper. The idea of being left wanting, of not being allowed to come for who-knows-how-long should have been frustrating, but it made his cock throb. He wanted it. He wanted it so bad. He wanted John to bring him to the edge and leave him there again and again, as often as he wanted, for hours, days.

John leaned over Sherlock to fetch lube from the bedside table. “Hmm? What’s that?”

“Please,” Sherlock managed. “Please, daddy.”

“So polite.” And with that, John’s weight was off Sherlock’s arms and chest, making the air around him feel cold and empty. He shivered, watching John kneel between his legs, push both knees towards his chest, brace them with one arm before dropping to his other elbow. 

There, John paused. Sherlock could see him cock his head, though he couldn’t see the expression on his face. “Um, Sherlock?”

“What?”

John popped open the cap of the lube. “Did you sleep with someone?”

Sherlock tensed. Why the hell was John asking that? “What?”

John rubbed a soothing hand over Sherlock’s thigh. “It’s all right. I’m not angry if you did.” A slick finger circled his hole, so softly. “You just look a bit”--gentle pressure against his sphincter--”tender down here.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face flamed. He wished his hands were free so he could cover it. He swallowed. “Um, I… I did that to myself.”

John’s finger kept circling, pressing, testing. He dribbled a bit more lube, dipped his finger just inside. “What did you do?”

Sherlock shivered, willing John’s finger deeper. “Dildoes.”

John’s lips against Sherlock’s perineum, he murmured, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to take care of you.” Finally the finger slid home, and John exhaled against Sherlock’s balls. “You’re just too impatient for your own good, aren’t you?”

Sherlock tried to tilt his hips to angle John’s finger against his prostate, but John shifted his weight to the arm behind Sherlock’s knees, destroying his leverage and introducing an aching stretch to his thighs. And as if to add insult to injury, the tip of his tongue snaked up the underside of Sherlock’s cock, flicking away as it reached the frenulum. God, it was barely anything, little bits of scattered sensation, but it was enough to bring him right back to the edge.

Sherlock was undone. He could concentrate on nothing but the burn in his wrists and thighs, the slide of John’s finger studiously avoiding his prostate, the throb of his cock, the hot tension in his groin.

John worked slowly, methodically, adding that perfect extra bit of stimulation each time Sherlock’s brain tried to reboot. He couldn’t figure out what signaled it to John, and he didn’t dare try, lest it upset this balance. He buzzed everywhere, lost in his body, floating above it. The edge of orgasm ebbed and flowed like a wave, and Sherlock learned to ride it. Gone was the frustration of wishing John would just go a bit harder, a bit faster. He lost himself in pleasure, too gone to even wonder at it. He didn’t have to do anything. He didn’t have to think or posture or impress; he just had to feel.

He surfaced a bit as John’s fingers slipped from him and his knees were allowed to fall. He blinked into the surprising brightness of the room to find John sitting up, shuffling close to Sherlock. He picked up Sherlock’s hips to slide his own thighs underneath, and Sherlock surprised himself by being unable to react in time to take some of his own weight. His brow furrowed.

John reached out, smoothing Sherlock’s brow before cupping Sherlock’s face in his hand. Sherlock pressed into it like a touch-starved kitten. “All right, love?”

Sherlock hummed, butting his nose against John’s palm until his fingers reached Sherlock’s scalp. John chuckled and tangled his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, giving it little tugs that cascaded goosebumps down Sherlock’s neck.

“Is that what you wanted?” John asked. Sherlock hummed again, and John reached for the belt with his free hand, tugging and adjusting until he was satisfied. “Are you ready?”

Sherlock didn’t know what John meant by that, but he wanted whatever John wanted to give him, so he nodded. Relief and exhilaration filled him as he felt the blunt head of John’s cock tease up and down his cleft before pressing in. One long, slow thrust. He felt miles long.

“Fuck,” Sherlock blurted before he was even aware that he was going to speak. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard, daddy. Please.”

His legs wrapped around John, heels digging in, pressing John closer. Hips restless. John’s cock. John’s body. His hands. His mouth. Sherlock needed it. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck._

“Yeah,” John whispered, fingers digging into Sherlock’s thigh. Body like the ocean. Skin on skin. Closer. Chest to chest. Cock trapped between their bellies. Hair and skin and sweat and precome. _Breathe in my ear._

“Fuck, Sherlock. That’s”--John squeezed Sherlock’s arse, spreading the cheeks, stretching the skin--”look at you. Brilliant. Fuck. Gonna-- gonna come inside you. _Fuck._ ”

Sherlock clenched his hands over the belt, body tense with the effort not to come. Trembling. Shaking. Quaking apart. “ _Please._ ”

“God yeah. Come. Come for me.”

Sherlock spilled over. He felt all the tension being wrung out from him like a flannel, body trembling, muscles contracting. He was sure it lasted several minutes. He would have thought that was impossible, just a trick of the brain, but he had to wonder when he came back to himself to see John already collapsed on top of him.

John took two deep breaths before reaching up and detaching the belt from the headboard. Sitting up, he pulled Sherlock’s hands with him and went to work undoing the makeshift handcuffs. Sherlock just watched as his hands came free and John checked them, rubbing fingers along the red marks left behind, pinching Sherlock’s nails between thumb and forefinger, kissing Sherlock’s palms, the insides of his wrists. When he let go, Sherlock let his hands flop to his sides.

John ran his hands down Sherlock’s neck to his biceps, thumbs sweeping in towards the clavicle. “How do your shoulders feel? All right?”

Sherlock arched his back to stretch through his neck, reaching his arms out as far to the side as he could. God, the stretch felt amazing. He hummed. “Fine.”

John crawled to one side, and Sherlock took the opportunity to roll onto his stomach and sprawl, face mashed to the pillow. He heaved a deep sigh. God, that was incredible. He’d never felt so relaxed in his entire life.

John’s hand skated down Sherlock's spine. “Do you want me to clean you up now, or wait?”

“Wait,” Sherlock mumbled into the pillow.

Settling in next to Sherlock, John ran his fingers over Sherlock's scalp, down his neck and back until his arm settled over Sherlock's waist, his leg crooked over Sherlock's thigh. He kissed Sherlock's shoulder, his arm, his back. Featherlight, chaste kisses that gave Sherlock the veritable warm fuzzies--a feeling he would have sneered at in other circumstances, but in this moment, he turned his head, meeting John’s next kiss with his mouth.

Once the kiss was done, John flopped down to his pillow, bringing up his bottom arm to run his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip. “You were brilliant. Jesus. You should have seen yourself.”

Sherlock smiled, laying his head near John’s. He felt like he could instantly fall into a deep sleep, but at the same time, a ball of tension began to build in his chest. It didn't make sense. Why was he feeling anxious? Just a moment ago he was happy as a clam. What was happening?

John pulled a blanket over them and then held Sherlock closer, wrapping arms and leg around him. “You did so well. So good for me.”

The pleasant buzz over Sherlock's skin slowly replaced with prickles, every gentle touch scraping oversensitive nerves, and he rolled away, curling into himself.

John didn't give chase or attempt to gather Sherlock back into his arms, but he did lean over Sherlock, concern writ on his face, and ask, “What is it?”

Sherlock yanked the blanket tight around himself. “Don't coddle me.”

Here John did gather Sherlock into his arms. “This is completely normal. I know you had a tough drop last time, and it was my fault. Will you let me make it up to you?”

“No.” Sherlock shook. God, what was happening? “Leave.”

“No. I’ll stop talking or cuddling if you want, but I’m not leaving.”

“For God’s sake!” Sherlock ripped the blanket off him and sat up, clenching his fingers in his hair. “I don't want you comforting me just to discard me.”

John blinked. “What?”

Sherlock let his head fall into his hands. “I thought I could do this, experiment with sex, learn what I could from you and move on, but I had to go and get attached. God, I’m pathetic.”

“You’re not-- Oh God, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I thought you kn-- Christ, I’m bad at this,” John muttered. “I thought you understood what the key was about. I thought that’s why you came.” 

“I came to throw it in your face, but I’m weak.” Tears stung the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. Damn it!

Wait a minute.

Sherlock swiped at the gathering tears. “What is the key about?”

John scrubbed a hand through his own hair. “I was trying to tell you that I want more than casual sex. I wanted you to know you could always come over, that I wanted a relationship, and I thought you agreed, but obviously I’m an idiot.”

“Obviously.”

John nodded, frowning.

“Don't take it badly. Almost everyone is.”

John let out a silent chuckle, no more than a puff of air through his nose. “Can you forgive an idiot?”

“If you can promise not to kick me out just because we have an argument.”

“That’s not what--” John took a breath. “If you promise to consult me before you do something that affects our lives outside the bedroom.”

Sherlock felt an inner cringe, but he would not let it show on his face. He nodded. “Fair enough.”

He scooted a bit closer to John, who took the clue and wrapped himself around Sherlock, propping his chin on Sherlock's shoulder.

“I think I know something that will make you happy.”

Sherlock peered over his shoulder, skeptical. “What’s that?”

“I have tickets to a charity ball in a couple weeks, and guess who will be there.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. “Mary.”

John smiled, dragging teeth against Sherlock's bare shoulder. “Care to make her jealous?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I took my sweet time, didn't I? There was just something about this chapter. I wrote so many versions, but I couldn't get it right. But then, I switched to Sherlock's POV, and it finally worked.
> 
> All this to say, sorry for the delay, and I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Many many thanks as well to my beta, Iamjohnlocked4life.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to CatieBrie for the beta.


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